Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

16 February 2026

Hey, if you think real hard maybe we can stop this rain. C'mon, after three: 1…2…3…NO RAIN…NO RAIN…NO RAIN…

Upon us all a little rain must fall, but this is ridiculous. All we see has turned to brown, but isn't there always a little bit of heaven in a disaster site? As we scan this wasteland the question is why can't we fill it with sand. Is anyone tryin' to find, tryin' to find out?

Their ground is a museum, when people come to see 'em they really scream. Ah, good old Old Gold Wolves, like the winds they rise and fall. Theirs is another season of emotion, their fans a wonder of devotion to their cause. Theirs is a tale oft told, how years ago in days of old, magic filled the air. Sorry to ramble on, but they used to be contenders, they used to be somebody, and now, well, let's face facts, now they get to live their lives without fun.

Ah, so that's why they are here. The big boys are back in town. Blimey, they really are big boys.

Town lined in the usual 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Smith, Rodgers, Warren, McJannet, Sweeney, Turi, Burns, Walker, Khouri, Vernam and Kabia. The substitutes were Auton, Staunton, Kacurri, Green, Amaluzor, Oduor, Sellars-Fleming, Soonsup-Bell and Cook. Ch-Ch-changes, we knew there was just gonna have to be a different man or two after Wednesday's yomp through the bog. Most of our beef and brawn is on the bench, do you think that's wise, and who is the captain? Ah, it's Captain Rodgers, marvellous.

Out there through the drenching drizzlesheets I spy with my little eye three Gomes, two Buenos and the Wolfman. And Arokadare, The Predator, a huge human hulk dragged onto the sandbanks to get in the way of local shipping. These minty men may be small in a big league, but they sure look big enough for League Two, like a Bromley tribute act.

They are big lads, but are they in shape?

Mmm, it's still raining, it's a forking hell for the groundstaff. Is it safe?

Yes, it's safe, it's very safe, it's so safe you wouldn't believe it.

Is it safe?

No. It's not safe, it's... very dangerous, be careful.

What we need is a clencher's bogleman in this famous Lincoln town, for they'd clench their bogling forks to keep the water down.

1st half – the Lincolnshire Bogsnorkelling Championship semi-final
Town kicked off on a pudding of a pitch towards the Osmond. Ah, but what kind? Dense, gooey with a crumbly base and dark in appearance, it's got to be Mississippi Mud Pie.

An up-an-under up, and Town up and at 'em. Khouri clattered down the left and retrieved his cleared cross with a sprawderling star jump in the rain shadows of the Ramstand. The ball boombled back into the path of the wandering Wolds Panther, who, with a joggle and nurk my friends, wiggled past a couple of paper cups and, from the corner of the penalty area, swingled a low coiler through the mangrove swamp. The ball sizzled past their pink plunger and fizzled around the farthest post by mere millimetres.

What a start, what momentum!

What momentum?

Johnstone slipped and slimed the goal kick into the quicksands and the game slowly coagulated into a mudwrestling marathon of rucks and mauls with the occasional line out. It's all a terrible mess, we'll just have to run in the rain 'til they're breathless.

It's energetic, it's enthralling, it's light on entertainment. Good game, good game? You get nothing for a pair of sliding tackles in this game. Turi purring, Khouri pouring forward and pouring oil on troubled waters. It's an ever-flowing unstale stalemate, all thud and occasional blunder as players splish-sploshed through the boglands, even the Wolds Panther got stuck in when not getting stuck in the mud.

A corner here, a corner there and Minty long chucks noddled aside by the strong and the staunch, punched away by the custardian. And once, but only once, the Predator pounced, hooking over a miserably mundane general dink into the Town box. Once. Just once, he looked like a footballer.

Here and there, Town towning about. Burns underhitting passes, overhitting crosses, avoiding use of his right boot when invited to treat us to the full range of his inabilities. Good lad Darragh, works hard you know. Moments of nearlyness when things almost happened. A cross deflected, a cross diverted, a Walker cross shin-sliced over the angle of post and bar, a Walker cross drifting onto the roof of the net. Town corners shortened to nowhere, the game drifting, the rain not lifting, momentum shifting.

On the half way line Terrible Tolu handled with care whilst backing into McJannet. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, but the pastel peeper pointed southwards. With Town in ambling retreat Andre-the-not-giant midfielder tapped quickly as the alert Armstrong pestered into the void, colliding with McJannet's knee just before he entered the kingdom of heaven.

Twenty or so yards out to the centre left of Smith's goal, the only Gomes on the pitch chipped a delicate sand wedge onto the top left angle of post and bar, the ball boinging far out towards the covered corner, man. And that was them. Yeah, that's it.

Another ten minutes, no longer, and then we're turnin' them around 'round. A corner finally elevated and Warren arose alone towards the far post, thwankling wayly over. The digital clock on the wall's movin' quicker and one minute was added.

A half of no half measures, but a half where nothing happened, magnificently. Oui, c'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la football: c'est une belle folie.

2nd half – Into the void
Neither team made any change at half time.

From the off an up-an-under up and Town up and at 'em. Kabia clattered into Bueno and turned to face the crowd in startled dismay as a yellow card fluttered. Johnstone walloped straight down the middle, the ball grazed off Warren as the Predator pushed. Rodgers stepped back to pass back, the ball travelled into the bogginess and died. Smith's swipe swept straight to Armstrong, ten yards out, but relax, settle down, they bought him to score goals next season.

A deep data dive into the internet reveals that there are many methods of bogsnorkelling through the muddy waters - from "splashy", to "dog paddly" to "leg dominant". All were on show, but take it from Neil the World Champion, leg dominant is the best, for though lacking in grace and style, powerful legs get top marks for speed.

Let's just embrace the wacky bonkersness of the event and get the bog bug.

OK, take a breath, close your eyes and dive back in.

A leisurely long lump into the covered corner by McJannet drifted into the sump. Khouri careered into the void, hustled and hassled Mosquera into a splashy tantrum and tickled to Vernam. Juke box jiving as Sweeney and Khouri took turns to samba through the slop. A cross deflected up off green socks, up, up and beautifully away into the path of the unmarked Walker near the penalty spot. Alas poor Yorkie-based Walker, we know him, a fellow of infinite jest and excellent fancy flicks, here hung his hips that hath missed we know not how oft in a career. All wrong, taken with his right, and volleyed high into the Osmond. He made the Wolves fans laugh at that.

Just before the hour Green and Cook replaced the irrepressible Walker and the invisible Kabia in the middle of a session of lupine long chucks. Their clothes are wet, tight on their skin, but not as tight as the corner that Town painted themselves in. C'mon, if in doubt get it out!

In and out and in again, Turi picked a pocket or two and crinkled a clearance up the line to Vernam. Oh Charles, you're a right Charlie at times. A high-steppin' flick infield set Wolves up for another raid, another throw-in. Chucked in, headed out, a shot spundled off a black and white back into the path of a merry Mintyman, deep on the left of the Town area. Gomes crossed and the knocking knees of Bueno deflected the ball on from a couple of yards out, and couple of inches or so from Warren's ducking bonce.

Rocking and rolling down their right, Khouri and Vernam, Sweeney felt like dancing, a cross deflected and slapped aside from the near post by Johnstone. Was it a cross, was it a shot, was it a bird, or was it just a plain old moment of nearlyness. It was what it was.

Stripes sinking ever deeper in the quicksand, the referee refusing to help. A cross, a corner, a corner, a cross, a muddy replay of the autumn ailing, the post Man Utd drift as opponents sat back, nicked a goal and sat back again, flicking aside the feeble weebles, waiting to spring into the spaces left by the galloping full-backs. And here we go. Barging and charging down Sweeney, Mané roamed and rolled into the path of the Terrible Tolu. And the rest is history as he swiped well over with many Mariners legs akimbo.

With quarter of hour left Vernam and Sweeney were replaced by Sellars-Fleming and Staunton.

Rumbles, bumbles and many a stumble. Route one whackings and Tolu headed, ran on and crossed into the goop. Rodgers stretched but was nutmegged by the mud and Smith chased Armstrong off his allotment. Mané safely swiped into the deeper regions, if not the nether regions, of the Pontoon.

Time is pilin' up, Town struggle and scrape, all boxed in, nowhere to escape. Something better change or nothing will change; a change is a good as a rest. At last, the chaos engine, the Tom Bolawinra of the Twenty Twenties, emerged from his cocoon. Amaluzor came on for Burns and Staunton wobbled way over from way out.

Deep down in the Wolves half Staunton threw in shortly, Sellars-Fleming turned and delightfully dripped a dink beyond the tallest Wolves poppy. Cook, on the six-yard line, took a step back and softly guided a header into the hands of Johnstone. Well, that's it, isn't it.

It's not over yet. Hey, in this proud land we grew up strong, taught to fight. Don't give up, we're not beaten yet. Four minutes were added. Under the Ramstand, Smith hammered straight down the middle towards the sailing Green. A Midland muddle, Action Man arose to mug Mosquera inside the 'D' and reverse-swivel plop into the path of Sellars-Fleming. The boy with the tiger feet was not so neat, dithering and delaying long enough for Bueno appear, as if by magic, to divert the shot aside right on the penalty spot.

There was huffing, there was puffing, there was a corner and Bueno flicked away and there is no more to this tale.

The game that shouldn't have started ended after nothing much between the sticks. What should have happened, happened. Superior athletes bothered and that was that, they were better designed for the conditions and their brand of Bromley-ball was better suited to the conditions. They are indeed one of the better teams Town have faced in League Two this year. They are a club going places and have a remarkably good chance of being in League One soon enough.

It was football, but not as we've come to know it. By modern standards this was an unplayable pitch that became less playable by the second. The most remarkable thing about this game was not just that it started, but that it finished. No one shirked and no cried, they all, every single player, gave it a go.

There are worse ways to slink out of the cup.

Right, let's crowd fund some grass seeds