Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

1 February 2026

An inconvenient hour on a convenient day with a clear blue sky and low winter sun. You know at this time I'm usually eating a bun. Hold your nose we have to play them, it's a contractual obligation.

Town lined in the usual 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Smith, Rodgers, Lavelle, McJannet, Sweeney, McEachran, Kabia, Walker, Khouri, Vernam and Cook. The substitutes were Warren, Staunton, Turi, Oduor, Burns, Amaluzor and Sellars-Fleming. Some in, some out, they do say a change is a good as a rest. Actually it is good to rest, that's why we change. In come some fresh legs, out go some with dead legs and dead heads. Ah, but are we tall enough? Are we strong enough?

We will be soon.

He used to play for Arsenal, you know. After we'd made him an offer he didn't refuse, Big Mal, camouflaging his emotions in a thousand-yard stare, walked upon our land with a guard of honour. And thus tribute was paid to the Don of defending without arguing, who has the air of a man with limited patience for debate, someone who sees things in black and white, which would be very handy.

The opposition decided to play in pallid pink.

There you are, here we are at this ungodly hour. The pitch is a pudding and it's all far too early for football. Not all change is for the best, I rest my case.

1st half – Between the lines
Town kicked off towards the Osmond where 284 individuals from elsewhere congregated. We shall leave them alone to justify their existence.

Within 30 seconds Town were sliced open and their number 10 sliced wide. Bibbling, bobbling, Town barely cobbling half a pass together. Another slice vicar? The Town defence? Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse, even Pluto too. Hey diddle-diddle, all piggies in the middle, we're in the doo-doo. Another chip, another chase, another day in a way out café. As a Faustian Pacman entered the penalty area Sweeney nudged and the referee fudged the matter with a shrug. What a splendid lady.

What have we done? Perhaps someone nearly had a cross. Perhaps. It is only speculation. Townites ambushed, the ground hushed as we're being overrun by kick-and-rush merchants.

More evil chips, more evil chases, Rodgers hemmed into the deepest corner, splaying himself across the turf, praying for the ball to roll out. Another happy whistle, another bonus point for this most excellentest of referees.

Lumps and dumps, heads and tails, foul long chuckings and monochrome duckings. Lavelle and McJannet headed each other and headed off together for some sponge-based magic. A corner for the them. Up came their bigger men with Town two short. And Walker headed away. Dozing at a throw-in, a far flung foreigner ran into the void. There's panic in the streets of Blunderside as the sewage flowed one way.

Dodgem cars collided and Sweeney was swiped half way up the stairs. Off they jinked with a long wink into the Rodgerless void. Their number 10 waited for Lavelle, waited for Lavelle to slide and swayed past the slipping stopper. As the ball rolled on towards Smith he took a moment of quiet contemplation and, like an amateur insurance scammer, claimed to have tripped over a raised kerb in Freemo Street. Get up you tart, you wouldn't get a gig on Crimewatch, nor your local am-dram society, with that.

There's no way this ref, stood ten yards away staring straight at this Fosberry flop, will fall for this unnatural, mechanical pratfall. She pondered, she pointed towards the spot, she lost credibility as she lost the plot.

Number 13 stroked low and right as Smith scootled left.

Woah, that's nice, a Town attack! Rodgers roamed and Walker swept across the face of the farthest post from the edge of the penalty area. It's nice to string a pass together.

Them, them, them, gambolling at will, unfettered across the festering mess. A cross and header at a corner, a Number 13 clipper-dipper, shots blocked. Events dear boy, events.

With less than half an hour gone the shockingly slapdash Sweeney was put out of our misery, replaced by Staunton and scenery wobbled wildly as he made his way down the tunnel.

From the re-off and much faffing about, a long throw with a half-headed clearance plopping into the gloopiness way out left. Vernam swung his left boot on the bye-line to avert a corner but the ball sauntered straight to a pinkster by the Police Box. A woeful cross was weakly wafted by Walker back to their Number 21, who muffled a cross-shot into the general confusement of humanity huddled near the Town goal. Rodgers stuck out a shin and sliced into the bottom right corner.

Without doing anything but miss they're two up. It would be fair to say we're all feeling a little sorry for ourselves as the clichéd end to a run of clean sheets is beckoning. Maybe if we keep it tight and keep us shape we could keep the score down? We would need to get a shape first, of course.

This is hideous.

Slowly, slowly, the game died like a louse in a Russian's beard. Yes, it improved greatly. Town had ascended to the heady heights of forgettably poor. The existential question is: if things are not getting worse are they getting better?

And then, out of the blue, there was movement spotted far, far away. Khouri collapsed near the covered corner and the free kick was shortened and swept deeply by McEachran. Kabia sneaked around the back, arose and nodded in. The previously invisible linesman became all too visible, making grown children cry.

And then Vernam was booked. Vernam. This tells you all you need to know about decision making.

A vague cross here, and even vaguer cross nowhere, Vernam Vernamed into the Vernam zone behind the goal. A Walker lob-dink and Cook graze-flicked wide of the keeper's right post. Are they even playing a keeper?

Six minutes were added. I am sure something happened in those six minutes. Not here, in Cleethorpes, obviously, but somewhere in the world.

Woeful. Wretched. Everything, everywhere was wrong: the team, the tactics, the pitch, the officials, the kick-off time. Immensely average opponents should have been two up, just not in this way. There must be another way, a better way, one where Town actually turn up and play.

If we've got a real solution well, you know, we'd all love to see the plan.

2nd half – Spoiling for a fight
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Last out and first into the groove Town tore into them, rock'n'rolling through their egos, using the same tactics of chip-chasing harriment. McEachran wingle-dingled, Cook head-looped and the keeper plucked off the washing line as some starlings and crows lurked. A wink and dink, a swing and sway, Vernam rolled and Khouri swept high at the near post.

Pressure cooking, Cook pressing. Pink sock blocks and Walker curled widely over from a cleared corner. Rodgers raided and overran the ball, had a ball twirling past the pinkies and passed to the near post where Kabia was wrapped in a duvet.

Vernam Vernamed over the bar. Walker uber-Walkered a slasher out for a throw-in. Momentum is mass times volume. Town are massing, the crowd a-roaring.

Running, jumping and standing still, it's all one-way traffic, it's all kicking off out there. Rugged and robust, Town overpowering meek Midlanders. Khouri chased a wallop under the Ramstand, hassling and scraping the ball off pink toes. Vernam tapped to McEachran whose low pass zwinkled lowly through the penalty area. Cook held off his marker, allowing the ball pass by into the zone of uncertainty for Kabia to step forward and tap into the empty net at the far post.

Now we're cooking.

The intensity of the players, the crowd, turned up to eleven. Charles Vernam tackled an opponent. And won the ball. Rodgers sprinted from Mablethorpe and just kept on, stretching and sliding and swamping a panicking tripper. A corner drooped, the keeper flapped, Cook's bicycle freewheeled down the Prom, trickling wide. He wouldn't let it lie. By sheer force of personality the Cookie Monster forced a corner, charging down a fey flannel. Corner, another corner, a goal as Kabia sneaked around the roadworks to nod Staunton's swinging dipper down into the bottom left corner from, well, quite frankly I don't give a damn how far out.

And you will catch a fleeting glimpse of someone's fading shadow. Do not be concerned, they will not harm you, not with even Vernam joining the fun, sweeping off pink toes primed for action as a corner arbitrarily dropped near. Smith raced out of his penalty area to thwack and hoof away from a lately introduced speedster. Ah, but their keeper had to do it twice, but with added whimsy. My, he's looking flimsy.

With ten minutes left, straight after replacing Lavelle, Warren and their number 24 headed each other, causing a five minute delay. Play resumed in a subdued atmosphere, the balloon of intensity punctured, the momentum lost in the haze of a drunken hour.

With four minutes left Turi and Amaluzor replaced our old spring chickens, Walker and Cook and finally, Cyril, ten minutes were added.

Somewhere inside this bonus time Sellars-Fleming replaced Vernam. Whether this added or subtracted from the gaiety of the nation who can tell, who can remember in this random collection of corners and free kicks. Turi felled and a free kick floated off balding heads at the nearest post. More corners to Town, more free kicks to Town, but no shots from Town.

And there we are, a point to Town and a point made. And that point? Get. Stuck. In! Never give up, get into 'em, for most teams don’t like it up 'em, nor expect that from Town. With tippy-tappy Pepball impossible on that pitch, the new-found alternative comedy of a Big Bloke up front and balls in the box is working a treat.

If you're going to draw then that's the way to do it. Town won two-all.