Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

12 February 2026

Yesterday and the days before the sun was cold and the rain was hard. I know, it's been that way for a long time.

And the rain kept falling, the goalmouths going a deeper and deeper brown as the keepers ground down the remaining grass. Out came the groundsman with his big roller, over came the officials forever rolling balls. Is it on, is it safe?

Town lined up in a 4-1-4-1 as follows: Smith, Rodgers, Kacurri, McJannet, Staunton, McEachran, Burns, Green, Walker, Sellars-Fleming and Cook. The substitutes were Warren, Khouri, Odour, Vernam, Amaluzor, Soonsup-Bell and Kabia. Eyebrows were raised, but then again they always are. Ooh, it's our first chance to see the Albanian, who used to play for Arsenal, you know. We'll soon find out if you should believe the hype and see what type of Arsenal youther he is, or rather, was. Can he hack it on a wet Wednesday in…err…Grimsby. Sometimes the only thing to do is hack it on a wet Wednesday in Grimsby.

Oh yes, Accrington. Amusingly they have managed to bring some supporters. I can hear them out there squatting in the jungle.

And Jackson Smith sank lower and lower as the turf became mud and the mud became a thick oxtail soup of gloop.

It may have stopped raining but there's a calm before the storm. We know it's been comin' for some time…

1st half – Don't think twice it's all right
Town kicked off away from the 41 (FORTY ONE) Stannerpeople hiding somewhere out there in the mizzle and towards the Pontoon.

Oh, it's stopped raining.

Back to Smith, up to Cook, on to Rodgers, roaming, raiding, rampaging down the right and to the bye-line. A cross, a boombling deflection slithered wide off various knocking knees. Staunton's corner dripped, Rawson slash-shinned at the near post, the ball scraping the end of the keeper's nose on its way into the Pontoon. Another corner, another droop, Sellars-Fleming stooped and the ball flew over the bar.

Now, about the soufflé.

George being gorgeous, Green energy, rocking Rodgers, a cross fizzing through the bog beyond the far post. The goal agape, the crowd aghast as Sellars-Fleming skateboarded through the bog, slip-slided and skidded into the ball, shinning softly to the grateful dead. Tinkling, winkling, Mariners mugging the trippers. Sellars-Fleming dinked and the last blue head standing flicked away from two lurkers with his last follicle standing. Sufficient elevation, Mr Staunton! Accermen in a panic and in a pickle, Cook swivel-walloped, Sellars-Fleming stuck out a boot and diverted the ball against the startled keeper. And the ball plopped down, stuck in the mud at his feet.

Wave upon wave on monochrome attacks, more incessant than the rain as on Town go through their virtuous circle, recycling, fast and slow. Will this blistering start ever stop, I wonder.

Burns rolled weakly, Walker strolled into spaced and wafted waftily. Blue blocks, bigger blue blocks, blocks of big blueness. All hands to the pump Cap'n. Maldini ducked and headed over, Maldini growled and headed over again. McEachran swiped over, Green roamed and Cook slashed into the side netting.

Muddy hell, what's going off out there? They dived all at once with an ear-splitting splosh, then rose to the surface again, all singing this haunting refrain…mud, mud, glorious mud, there's nothing quite like it for…

Have you noticed? The referee was an invisible hand, like children in the days of black and white TV; she was seen but not heard, simply letting the game flow. I suppose you only get a man's game with a woman in charge these days.

Caught your breath yet? No, me neither. What a treat to be in a seat as Town made Accrington beat a retreat.

Wahey, here we go again, riding along on the crest of a wave of mud. A swarm of stripes, Green reversed the polarity and Sellars-Fleming bounded free, passing against the prostrate keeper's chest. The ball ballooned up and out to the edge of the penalty area where Green awaited, arose and thwonked a header sliding past the left post. Walker ducked and squealed inside the penalty area, Burns beduffled widely, Green flick a free kick just over and Cook's far head-bonk plonked into Wright's hands.

And the striped storm has blown itself out.

Slowly the bluesmen edged south, a clatter and ker-azy ricochet flew behind the defence. Rest easy, for Smith flew out to clutch a big spinny drooper. And finally it happened, Accrington, these sacrificial lambs yet to be slaughtered, escaped from the abattoir and gambolled through the fields. And had a shot. After 36 minutes. Grant. Long shot. Smith scooped. Nae problem.

Ah, problems. A tickle, a tackle and Smith smothered Mr Heath. Pumps and scrapes and what japes. Maldini has stirred. The Assassin stood nose to nose staring deeply into Whalley's eyes. Thoughts were sent. Sean, you may think know who he is but he definitely knows who you are.

Blue corners are no match for big striped heads and big orange hands. Ah yes, those big orange hands. A niddle, a noddle, and from fully 30 yards Grant bazooka-ed towards the top right corner. Smith watched, waited and weighted his plunge perfectly, supremely slapping aside as Staunton brushed Whalley aside.

There were three minutes added. And then there were no more minutes left.

With a lot of luck and a lot of pluck you could feel the whole Town exploding with frustration at the Bluesmen refusing to buckle. Yes, they were blown away and crushed into a pulp by the blistering stripes but unlike some of the weak and feeble they took every punch on the chin and were still standing at half time, looking like true survivors.

For the wild bunch of scallies scheming to hijack a promotion train The Great Rain Robbery is still on. The question for us is simple: have Town run out of ways to avoid scoring tonight? In all this mud, and after all this blood and thunder, it would be rather a pity if we don't sing tonight.

2nd half – Just like a woman
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Town quick out of the traps with a big old slap. Rodgers swingled, Walker wiggled on the edge of the penalty area and woggled a wallop off the top of the bar. A flick and trick deep into the right of the Accrington penalty area. Walker lapped past the onrushing keeper, but Rawson's paws paddled away for a corner. Staunton coiled, Cook leapt like several salmon and Wright booted away from the line, up, up and back to Walker, just outside the D. Wee Jamie took a step back and volleyed into the throng. Maldini ducked and arced and deflected on and wide.

So, the question is, do we stand up and applaud when we get to 50 shots even if we haven't scored?

Woah, hold your thoughts and your horses. Striped slackness, slippery slickness from the boys in blue. McJannet bamboozled by the Police Box and booked for hooking back a slithy tove almost three and half millimetres outside the box. A shortened free kick was pulled back into the path of the feigning taker, zippered through a huddle of humans and Smith superbly slapped down the slapshot into the mud, plucking up before blue toes could twinkle.

Now, if a Brazilian had done that you'd have wondered why they were at Blundell Park on a wet Wednesday in February. Harvey Rodgers did a 1260 backside with goofy stance, his party piece. And no one batted an eyelid.

An interception, an intervention and Green slapped terribly wide. Poor old Special K, too much time, too much time to think, too many thoughts. And too many unmarked team mates to pass to. Perhaps he didn't want to show any favouritism. Yes, that's it, it's his inherent egalitarian spirit. He didn't wish any of his team mates to fail, so did it himself. Now that's leadership.

Sellars-Fleming? Ailing and failing by the minute, he'll be off soon, done nuffink this half, you mark my words, laddie. Bring on the dancing horses, well Vernam.

Rocking and rolling all night long, happy days are here again. Green's sublime crossfield clatter was controlled behind his back by our North Banker borrowed boy. Ooh, that's right, that's neat, we really like this Tiger's feet! A defender brushed aside, a swing of his hips, a surge and swipe and Sellars-Fleming bazoombered a sizzling torpedo across the muddiness that missed the flailing yellow fingers, kissed the right post and hissed along the back of the net.

I can't think of anything to say except …*laughter*…I think it's marvellous…*laughter*...

Revved up and re-energised, from the re-up Walker swept up some looseness, swept out to Sellars-Fleming and Cook volley-steered past the near post. Oof, football.

Ah, football, a chip and chase, a tickle after a tackle missed and Henderson cutely steered through the gathering moss, straight at the expertly placed Smith, the man with the stickiest hands in Cleethorpes. Now I, like you, appreciate a full-back running from one side of the pitch to the other to divert danger. Well done young Reece. A small moment with a big impact.

With about 20 minutes left Khouri and Vernam replaced Walker and Sellars-Fleming. Give Chucky his due, he made one vital interception when he accidentally ran into the ball inside the Town box.

Five or so minutes later Oduor came on for the rejuvenated McEachran, left hobbling and holding his hamstring after stooping to head clear a crummy corner. At the same time they took off Woods, their weedy anonymous striker and brought on a great big bloke.

Their great big bloke was greeted by Maldini. Matters were dealt with, no need to worry how, they just were.

With five minutes left Burns and Cook trudged off and Amaluzor and Kabia skipped on. Cook made his way around the pitch and, like a true pro, made sure to greet his Accrington admirers. What a gay day indeed. And just as Cook reached the dug outs the ball plopped into a vacancy midway between Oduor and Matthews. In a game of chicken no-one jumped out of the car. An almighty clang and Oduor was left face down in the dirt as Matthews arrived with studs a-twitching.

Unfussed, unhurried, unperturbed by the hubbub and hoo-hah, the referee took a moment to assess the crash scene, taking out a tape measure and seeing a thick skid mark, followed procedure and flipped out a red card. Then a yellow for moaning, then another to someone, somewhere on their bench for the aggravated crime of moaning and groaning.

They lumped, they dumped, they raged at the moon. What more can I say? Jackson Smith: catches win matches. Oh, and Green headed a header over the bar as headers over the bar tend to be. I promise I won't forget to mention wriggling Oduor's wriggle and weird scrape across the face of the air above the crossbar. There, you see, we do what we say and say what we do around here.

Six minutes were added.

And what happened in these six minutes? Men in shorts ran around. Some were happy some were sad, some were angry, some were glad the referee was such a sensible chapette. But not those in blue.

Wicky-wacky hacking in desperation, Accrington lobbed higher and higher. Khouri brushed away some fluff and a blue arm slapped him around the chops as he left the penalty area. The referee whistled, the ball rolled on and Whalley sizzled a slap into the top right corner. Faux outrage at their fake news. Boo-hoo, wipe those tears from your ears, dry your eyes mate, you've got to walk away now, it's over.

Phew and phwoar. A narrow scrape but also an emphatic and ecstatic pleasure trip of intensely pleasing football. Town were delightful, irresitible, super-sexy, but it was also complicated and oh-oh-oh-so nearly larceny. What a pitch, what a game, what a time to be alive. What's next?