Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

19 February 2026

Exit light, enter night, wrap up tight and wear a hat, here comes the Buckley Derby.

Cold wind, tide moves in, shivers in the salty air. It's a four-sock day with a wicked wind willowing across the sand in an echo of a distant time – we're back to the 1970s again as the pitch is a peachy beach. With 187 Ghettoblasters huddled in the Osmond maybe it's the 1980s. Whatever decade you wish to refer the decayed pitch to, it's sandy. Can't you see the groundsman's been in misery these last few days as he prayed for no more rain, or more likely chanted, Woodstock style inside his incense-filled shed.

Town lined up in a 4-1-4-1 as follows: Smith, Rodgers, Kacurri, McJannet, Staunton, Turi, Burns, Green, Walker, Sellars-Fleming and Cook. The substitutes were Auton, Warren, Khouri, McEachran, Vernam, Amaluzor and Kabia. It's the midweek team for a midweek game with The Assassin returning for more friendly persuasion and Cook back for his ex-factor.

Walsall turned up in skyish blue with chunky chaps and a triplet of big lads at the back. Erm, and that's that. Blokes in shorts.

Ooh, it's parky, me ears are singing, unlike Blundell Park.

1st half – Every grain of sand
Town kicked off towards the Pontoon. Well. I say kicked off, that is merely a technical requirement for one team to start the game, but Town fulfilled this function brilliantly. It was their finest hour, or rather the finest thing done in stripes for half an hour.

Sky blue thinking, stripes sinking. First to fall and last to the ball, it's a stinking gloop of Town toshery. Lakin larking around, Town all shook up by Pressley's swinging hips, c'mon, get a grip! Slipshod and slack, a litany of slips, slides and hacks. A striped slice a mile high, big bouncing balls bobbing about and Smith swatting flies. Walsall dominant, they press to impress, purring forward.

They had a corner. They had a header. It hit something. Is it too early to plant the next batch of Artell's Artisanal Artichokes. We're choking on this chuffing chaff of chipball with the occasional chicken challenge.

After 27 minutes there was a shot in the dark, Lakin skew-whiffling to Smith. Twenty Seven Minutes. That's 1,620 seconds. There's so much one could do in 27 minutes. You could be well past Caistor, you could have baked some fish, in a little lemon with a herb and harissa topping, though of course, you'd need to have heated the oven first. Here's a little tip: put a drip of balsamic vinegar under the fish first. It adds a little je ne sais quoi.

Mmm, now what would you have with it? Spicy potatoes. I'd use a cajun mix and Greek herbs mixed with olive oil after marinating the potatoes in Worcester sauce. Pop them in the oven and, sorry, what was that? Did I hear something? Is that your phone?

Ah, it was, it's a score flash. Oh, Town are losing are they? I'd forgotten that they were playing tonight.

Burns won the ball, Burns lost the ball with Burns running parallel to the ball, then Burns prodding the ball back and out. A corner in the covered corner, swung high to the back post and nobody thought to do a little pruning. Look, we all know how quick Leylandii grows. Unmolested blueness and Farquharson arose alone barely inches out to thwonk in.

Walsall, what took you so long?

A cross or two overhit and underhit and barely a pass not mishit. The superficial appearance of competitive football between human actors, but is there anybody out there? Is this AI?

And Pressley shot straight to Smith. I'm so bored I can't be bothered to pun my way to fun.

Tackles missed, passes messed, shoulders shrugging, too many too willing to tumble and grumble when they need to rumble. Town present but without any discernible presence, Town merely a repellent force.

Oh no, Burns is injured!

Oh no, he's not. We just can't catch a break before the half time break, though we have put the brakes on Walsall after Smith's sudden collapse through…sunstroke. Words were spoken, actions speak louder than.

As four minutes were added Walker heave-hoed and Cook chased into the rockpools with his little bucket and spade seeking a crab, or at least a cockle or two. The keeper dithered out beyond the right corner of his area, swished where the ball would have been had it not bounced like a dead cat and drop-kicked the collapsing Cookie Monster. The referee saw red, declining to be mellow with yellow.

Ah-ha we've caught that break and fried it in batter. Walsall removed the Lark who was ascending and on came Hornby, the reserve keeper, who watched with pity as Walker's woeful free kick was wasted into the wall with Staunton left lurking lonely with his lovely left foot. A corner, a cross, a cross, a corner and in the 52nd minute Grimsby Town successfully manoeuvred the football in such a way as to be moving towards the Walsall goal. Statistically speaking this was a shot on goal. Staunton drifted and coiled, Flint flew in front of his keeper and the ball diverted away as it curled into the top right corner.

Except it didn't, did it.

And that's the half that nearly never ended summed up. It didn't. Town were not even dire, they were non-existent.

2nd half – Enter sandman
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Stripes moving, stripes hardly grooving, but a little conversation about potatoes. A long ball landed on Cook's thighs, but an old man creaking as he awkwardly puts his bins out is not a spectator sport. Today's Top Tip: make sure your wheelie bin's lid faces away from the prevailing wind.

Is that in their IDPs, Dave?

Darragh Burns is definitely a reliable lad, a good neighbour who would put your bins out and turn them the right way so your other neighbours don't get a garden full of variety packs. The Irish roamer jiggled and juggled, hitting the bye-line and dinking way-way too high, way-way too far beyond the backest of posts. Walker cut back and cutely coiled into the heart of the penalty area. The ball rose vertically as Hornby perfectly judged where it would have been if it had have been. But it wasn't. The ball died in front of the keeper's nose and Cook thundered in to thud into the centre of the nettage.

Are we awake now?

Oh yes, that packet of Coco Pops is working wonders. Walker picked a pocket, Walsall in a pickle, but Green slip-slided away. Burns! A double dose of Burnsian infield drifting and wifting a weeble into the waiting arms of the keeper.

Once, just once, the sky bluesmen busked in our underpass. Jellis, their rotund jelly mould, drop-kicked a cleared corner over the Pontoon's roof and received a fixed penalty for unauthorised entry into civil airspace.

On the hour Turi and Sellars-Fleming were replaced by McEachran and Vernam. If one was a kindly observer one would say that young Tyrrell will learn from this experience. His presence was no longer required or desired.

A crossfield pass arrowed beyond the last defender, right onto Slim Charles's chest. Into the area and Vernam crumpled. Alas you one-eyed Jacks and Janes, a free kick to Walsall for a handball. Town encamped, ticking left, ticking right, time ticking on. A Walker shot diverted, a Walker shot blocked by Flint, their Desperate Dan.
Staunton's corner flingled off blue heads straight to Walker, in the 'D', whose shot ballooned out left. Walker ran over and retrieved, wiggled and wangled a shot-pass into the crowded rockery. Cook stuck out a boot and diverted from the middle of the middle of the huddle and had a little cuddle with his old Bantam buddy, but only after He-Manning in front of the sedentary, if not sedate, Walsall fans.

Miraculous, you called it. You ain't seen nothing yet!

Ah, perhaps we have seen it all, and now it's all downhill to the end of it all.

Vernam muggled about, getting in the way of a wandering Wallsallian. A handball? A foul? Who knows what was going through the mind of the curiously-shorted ref. A free kick under the Police Box. Dealt with.

Vernam buggled about, getting in the way of a meandering Midlander. A handball? A foul? Who knows what was going through the mind of the curiously-shirted ref. Go on, have another go. Coiled deeply, Cook wrapped himself around a loping Leylandii and the ball drifted straight out.

Who knows what was going through the mind of the curiously-coiffured referee when he gave a corner.

From their left the corner dripped and drooped and arced to the farthest post and, well, there goes another one just lying down on the sand dunes. With Smith again expertly blocked Pressley, a yard or so out, unhindered by humans of a striped kind, arose to let the ball kiss his bonce and his mates kiss his head.

Not all identical twins are alike. Walsall's were.

OK, let's get back to the attack v defence training session.

Round and round we go, with McJannet dumping diagonal balls, McJannet driving and McJannet dribbling. We know it's all going to pot when Wee Janet becomes the engine room of creativity. With ten minutes left, somewhere in between the many whacks of McJannet, Kabia replaced Burns. It's all a receding blur of misplaced wellies, stumbles, fumbles and grumbles as Town simply receded. For once the Wolds Panther broke free from his chains to gambol gaily through the left and wicky-whack a low fizzer across the keeper. Hornby sunk low and left to get the fingerest of tips upon the ball and divert it between post and lunging legs. Walker walloped wide, Walker's volley squirtled through a crowded house, knocking on several doors, but all remained shut.

Walker dinkle-crinkled a free kick from the left and Hornby smothered as stretching, sliding Kabia swooped inside the six-yard box. Flint sliced from under their crossbar. Harper's high-steppin' volley diverted a Vernam crimple that had passed their keeper by.

And all the while a little nagging fear gnawed away, that a single break or an accidental corner would prove fatal. Kabia touched a bluesman's aura and down he plunged. A chance to lump and dump and over Staunton it sailed to the awaiting Clarke, who fell over his own shadow.

Five minutes were added and Town carried on processing their cheese, churning away, rolling around and around and around. Vernam and Khouri did a gentlemen's excuse me and still we curdled. With seconds left the whey-faced Green advanced into the area and softly passed to a waiting Wallyman rather than whack and welly. And if this game was one you saw on the telly well, at least you had warm feet, for it was definitely not a treat to have a seat in Blundell Park, but at least we weren't beat.

A chance missed to advance in the league but barely a chance created let alone missed in the game. Perhaps it's best to look upon this as a point gained, for Walsall got less than they deserved for first half superiority and second half stoicism. Let us not talk of this evening again.