Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

22 February 2026

Some live in the country, some live in the town, some have a great notion that they aren't going down.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is a story that you shall tell your grandchildren, and mightily bored they'll be. Follow me after a long night's journey into a drear day of drizzle in the fair city of Brizzle where they grizzle and grumble at the Gasmen's tumble towards the cavernous void of the old Conference. Perhaps they'll be voting for three up, three down now. Always a good idea to have an exit strategy.

What's ours? Well, I've parked the car round the corner, all the better to get into the traffic jams nice and early. Get into the ground nice and early else you'll get jammed in the cheap seats.

Town lined up in that cookies and cream kit in a 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Smith, Rodgers, Lavelle, McJannet, Staunton, McEachran, Kabia, Green, Walker, Vernam and Cook. The substitutes were Auton, Warren, Turi, Khouri, Burns, Sellars-Fleming and Amaluzor. Ah, yes, our tallest defence available as we await West Country wallopings, but what are our reserves of strength? We're Oduorless and without recourse to the Flying Squad if summat goes wrong. How can we play fragrant football if we are Oduorless? What is our Plan B? With all those ephemeral widesters, obviously to use the outer spaces.

For those hoping for a grand day out remember that Mascara Man, now the Incredible Shrinking Man, will be seeking vengeance most foul.

1st half – First Contact
Town kicked off into the face of the Brizzle mizzle and away from the 800 or so travelling Townites, shovelled into a stand or sprawling across a naked terrace, already drowning and frowning.

The Gasmen cometh.

A nudge and nurdle nowhere in particular and Thompson-Sommers had a sudden urge to study the molecular structure of the underlying subsoil, much to the surprise of many a man in cream. A free kick on the halfway line on their right was lumped and dumped deeply. Staunton back-pedalled and soft noodled outwards to the outer edge of the 'D'. Balmer, alone without a care in the world, swayed and swung a swerving skidder into the bottom left corner with Smith a mere spectator of this spectacular strike. He hit it and it went in.

One minute, one goal, one is not very pleased.

Humping and dumping, dumping and lumping, every Townite outrun, outfought, outjumped. Fraught and frantic even without the antics of the officials who, one can only deduce from the evidence available, had fried magic mushrooms with their beans on toast. From the irrational to the irascible, Artell slowly combusting as the wind was gusting.

Ahoy there, I see land. Vernam fooled the full-back by crossing with his left foot and the ball shimmered across the face of goal. Through the mist and amidst much mucking about the ball was scrunched away from the farthest post as Kabia lingered. A creamy corner stooped and drooped but the boys drinking in the Flag and Whistle put an end to all that nonsense. The keeper launched the free kick that may have been a goal kick but was definitely taken on the wrong side long, long, long. Rodgers and Lavelle converged unmolested by blueness. The ball squinkled sideways into the path of Akhamrich who, from their left carefully passed a cross into the path of Quigley who stepped in front of Staunton and swept in from dead centre, eight yards out.

Seven minutes and they're in heaven; we're in a hell of a mess.

Tips and taps, we're in a scrap. Quigley charged down Smith, the ball ballooning safely. Quigley charged down Smith and the Barnsley Stopper sloppily slid the ball out for a throw-in. Now then, throw-ins. If you look very carefully you will find one that was not fouled up in some way. Foul throws, a stain on the game.

And the Gasmen cometh again with a spring in their step. Waves of blue and a Town boot stepped across Harrison as he steered straight out of play for a goal kick that was given as a corner. Another minute, another Pirate raid after Kabia was pushed over in plain sight. As the Bluesman was about to shoot McEachran tapped the ball aside and the Gasman plunged squealingly on the very edge of the penalty area. A free kick, conjured from the thinnest of air by the magician with a flair for invention. It hit the wall, as did Brizzle.

C'mon Town. A little more conversation, a lot more action, please. All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me. A lot more bite, a little more bark, a lot more fight and then we may get a spark.

Passing, movement, tackles and tussles. The Pirates permanently pinned back as Town began to play, Walker the fulcrum, the pivot, the creator. Staunton stroked wide, Vernam jiggled and jangled to the bye-line, dinking from the bye-line with his left foot. The ball drifted over Young, bonked agin the inside of the far post and went straight out to a boy in blue.

Vernam Vernamed infield to wiffle lowly to the keeper, Cook grazed wide as the Pavlovian flag flutterer flashed his pans. Young flapped a cross shot and Kabia, half a dozen yards out, was manhauled by Harrison as the ball rolled invitingly nearby. Can't catch a break, can't buy a spill, just another free kick to keep the home fires burning.

It's getting pretty hairy out there for the locals. Look over there, that's Charlie’s point.

Town ticking away, McEachran carrying the water, Walker pouring the wine.

McJannet gracefully galloped upfield and caressed out to the Wolds Panther, who triple-bluffed the full-back, cut infield and crinkled cutely towards the centre. Green dummied or missed, season to taste, and on the ball rolled. The backwards facing Cook held off Colonel Kilgour, spun and stab-scrumped in from five yards out.

Now for the pirates lair. Game on.

Well, Kabia's not the world's most physical guy but when he squeezed Jaze tight, he nearly broke his spine. Mola, Em-Oh-Ell-Ay, Mola finally booked for introducing Kabia to the local dry cleaners where, this being Brizzle, eco-friendly detergents are used. I find they never truly get rid of the stain.

Four minutes added with Town encamped in their half, rolling left, rolling right, waiting for the moment to strike. A Walker shot flew and Young plunged to paw and parry aside, avoiding all non-locals.

For 15 minutes they were everything Town weren’t, then they were nothing, nothing at all when Town decided to be something after all. Listen lads, we can still do this.

2nd half – Sloppy Seconds
Neither team made any changes at half time as the drizzle sheets continued to drift into the forlorn faces of those unlucky few standing in the shadows.

What is it going to be? Will it be the brave old world or a slide to the depths of decline? Ah, there is nothing to declare but our genius for disappointment.

Them, doing things, running around, rocking and rolling forwards. Town, undoing things, standing around, whacking and wailing backwards.

A Town corner was cleared upfield and off they ran. A deep cross was headed back, but by jove, we’ve got it. Faffing about, parcels passed, Town knotting their own shoelaces. A half scrunch away was returned and Quigley cha-cha-cha-ed past Lavelle and to the bye-line, passing to the unmarked Harrison a dozen yards out. McJannet advanced and a pass or block, it matters not, for the ball squiggled sideways straight to another Bluesman. Akhamrich calmly took a touch, calmly assessed the vista before him and calmly passed through the eye of a very large needle into the bottom right corner.

Oh men of dark and dismal fate, I’m telling a terrible story. Game off.

Brizzle breakaways, the striped shackles rarely hold them down. A near-post prod, near but far enough wide. A shot wide, a header blocked, a header re-blocked, shots here, there and everywhere, boombling left, bumbling right with frantic flings from every wing and you can hear the caged birds sing.

With 20 minutes left Burns came on for McJannet as Town moved to a back three and…and what? I dunno, you tell me.

Somewhere, sometimes, it may as well be now and a momentary moment where, in a lapse of reason, we believed in a Mariners miracle. Just for a split second, a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of our eye of a better life. And then Vernam's terrible touch brought us snap back into reality. Today, Charlie don't surf.

With ten minutes left there was a Town double subbing as Turi replaced Green and Amaluzor became Walker. Turi was neat, tidy and quick in releasing passes. He rather wasted his efforts as there was nothing to pass to.

Smith smartly smother-slapped as a lone bloke in blue tried to go around him. Other things.

As five minutes were added Sellars-Fleming replaced Vernam and yet still they steamrollered over the campsite! Ooh, fancy that. Fancy flicks and tricks and absent friends as Cavegn rounded Smith, rolling across the face of goal betwixt and between legs of various colours. Omochere stretchy missed from a Cavegn cross and then passed up another treat by passing wide.

In the lastest minute a Staunton corner was flicked on and up. Cook winked, Young flew and flip-scraped off the line towards Amaluzor, but a homester flung himself and that was that. And at the very, very last Cook softly headed on a free kick. And that really was that. A slapping that wasn't a statistical pasting.

Nothing will live in the memory of this trip to the Memorial Ground. We didn't find the meaning of happiness here, we just found Town overwhelmed, overpowered and overly reliant on a core who have run out of steam. Time for a steamy bath and a bit of R&R.