Home thoughts from the bored

Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

26 April 2015

Grimsby Town 3 Aldershot Town 1

The old field looks rough with this hoary dew.

It's raining, it's pouring and some old men are snoring. Well, there's nothing left for us here. We won't waste another jeer on this dead rubber duckie. Oh to be huddled in the Pontoon when April is here.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 as follows: McKeown, Parslow, Gowling, Nsiala, Bignot, Chapell, Brown, Disley, Mackreth, Hannah and Pittman. The substitutes were Sunter, McLaughlin, Clay, Palmer and John-Lewis. It's a Carl-less kickabout with Town Magnayless, Sheepish Shaun penned and Palmer the preening peacock trimmed to the bench. Who else? Ah yes, it's Saturday, a barber's busiest day of the week. Arnold had been called in for emergency hedge trimming. Young Josh Sunter had evaded the demon barber of Park Street's pruning shears, displaying a florid, flouncing, bouncing, curly mop like it's 1980 all over again and new romanticism never happened. It never should. Beware! Ant music is just around the corner.

If you must know, there were about 100 Happy Hampshire holidaymakers hopping and hoping that Hatton, the former Town trotter, higgled our piggle.

It's so sad when you're young to be told you're having fun. Parent-people of the world, do us all a favour and at least make their first match something less stupid.

First half: Wandering and dreaming

An impeccable minute's silence.

The Hampshire hoofers kicked off towards the Pontoon and way out of touch. McCollin, their number 21, is speeed king – you're really gonna see him fly… into the puddles as Toto took a little rice and took a little beans and flung him all the way to New Orleans.

Town's wingers winged it. Town's swingers swung it. Southern-fried flingers flung it. Hey look, it's Sam Hatton, the former Wombledon wideman, flinging his flan flaccidly. No inflatable animals were harmed in the wasting of that throw-in.

Lord Brett Williams, the globe-trotting playboy of the Bananarama, took no persuading to waft way, way over, onto the roof and far away. Hannah cut in and cut a deal with a roofing contractor: 10 per cent commission for every roof tile dislodged in Neville Street. Little Ross earned 38p on the side today. Hannah hit low and a Shot blocked the shot.

Bored? No sir, simply relaxed and letting my mind float downstream. This season is not dying, it is not dying. Yet. There's always hope.

Aldershot, those army dreamers? They never even made it to the twenties. What a wasted journey.

Is your curiosity running wild? Nicky-nacky nooooing nowhere in particular, with no particular place to go, Disley tickled over the top. Hannah sneaked away, awaited the keeper's dip, and calmly clipped for another snipping for his scrapbook. No sniping please, we're leading.

A lump, a juggle and a spectacular Pittman bicycle buggle over the top, down the centre-left. The electric blue sea parted like dads in a disco, and there followed a sumptuous Hannah hare and rare chip. A thing of beauty that'll be a joy forever. It will never pass into nothingness, but will keep on YouTube.

This is terrible, a travesty of Town life, a farcical farrago of fun-filled frippery, a literally alliterative litany of lambastable loveliness

Hannah from the halfway line! Ross rattled row D as the OAP keeper zimmered east and the crowd simmered in the south. Is that a white flag I see before me or Sergeant Smith's flappy hands waving and drowning in the drizzle? A corner drummed in from the right. Gowling arose majestically to softly steer into the emptiness as the subterranean keeper simply shrivelled. The goal disallowed for, you know, stuff, probably, somewhere maybe.

This is terrible, a travesty of Town life, a farcical farrago of fun-filled frippery, a literally alliterative litany of lambastable loveliness. Town've completely lost us shape (© TMFKAS Ltd). It's shockingly unprofessional to score more than one and keep trying to score more. Haven't they read Jose's seven-point plan for perfect football? Ah, there's the man to bring us back to reality. On cue as the second goal popped in, he popped up to body-pop along the Dentists Stand. Surely it's Lennie Time. No? Ambassador Deputy Doig, with these goals you're spoiling us.

Ah, there we go. Sam Hatton, the former England C enigma, coiled a lazy, loopy free kick laughingly over and out. You see, they were still here. They couldn't go home just yet.

Some of this, some of that, but not much more than a hill of beans and pile of rice. Jamie Mack showed off his golf skills with a mashy nibble dink over Lord Brett Williams and we then could head for the hills in search of heat.

How do you score goals? It turns out you just score goals.

Second half: Pottering and pootling

Neither team made any changes at half time. Ha, fooled you! There was a change: Parslow and Nsiala swapped positions. Toto gave us a cameo of cuteness, all stylish squints and suave sashays. A tall man for a tall order down Eastleigh way. Just look at our Eastleigh Experiment.

Town this and that, but so what? We've got arrangements to make for next weekend. Was that Dizzer doing something? Them, why? Ah, yes, they're attacking towards their fans, gotta give ‘em something to remember this long, long trip to the heart of dankness for. The unmolested Molesworth meandered malevolently, muffling a shallow slinker through the six-yard box. The ball hit the lonesome persuader's chin and that was that, their fast and furious chance gone in 60 millimetres.

Toto tippled and a blueman was baffled into a burbling babbling mistake. Pittman reverse-flicked and rolled into their penalty area, calmly clipped into the right-hand corner and raced off into the crowd to steal some chips.

"Jon-Paul Pittman, he steals your chips."

Sam Hatton, the former schoolboy, coiled a free kick, way, way over, just like he used to in the early days with Town.

Town attacks. Mackreth fizzled, Chapell fozzled, or was it the other way round? They look the same, they are the same, two frozen peas in a pod. My, my, it's nippy, at least they're zippy, even if Town are bungling along forgetting to attack the near post. Chapell tried a long-range welly; Smith scoopled. A conveyor belt of small moments crawled past our eyes. Hannah be-bumbled down the left and the cross was mumbled away at the near post via heads, hands, heads, knees and tails.

We need to dampen down This Sort Of Thing. Lennie replaced the chip stealer, to digitally re-mumble Town's attacking. Think of it as the footballing equivalent of remastering a Stevie Nicks album.

Once our beer was frothy but now its frothy coffee... well, you can calm down now. We're back to normal, Lennie's stealth shins allowing him to pass under the radar and pass right out of play. The party's over.

Sam Hatton flung again and again and again, wasting his time and ours. Much like his time with Town

Sunter replaced Nsiala and Parslow went back to right-back. Jumpy Josh wellied onto the Dentists' roof and had his next and final clearance charged down. The Shottermen scampered and scuttled, with Town at sixes and sevens. Lord Brett stood on the penalty spot and clattered lowly through the gloop and gloom. The ball hit Jamie Mack and shuffled away.

This was almost pressure. Sam Hatton, the former foetus, flung again and again and again, wasting his time and ours. Much like his time with Town.

On came Clay for Mackreth and Town had a golden triangle on the right: Parslow, Clay and Lennie. If you saw it from my angle it was more of a Bermuda triangle. The ball went in but disappeared, never to be seen again. A great big mystery which can be explained.

With five minutes left one of them fell over. Thirty yards out on their centre-right, Roberts coiled a whipping dipper into the top left corner, leaving the yellowman with nowhere to go.

Who wants soggy chips from the Shop with a chip shop on his shirt? Oh Lennie, Lennie, Lennie. With Chapell screamingly alone, Lennie levered a rather sorry soggy chip into the hanging gardens of Blundell Avenue.

The inside is out, the outside is in. C'mon, c'mon, the table's booked for 7:30. Everybody's got something to hide except for me and my curry.

A final flourish to make TMFKAS furious? Hannah chased, Hannah crossed over from right to left, Chapell spindled a spectacular hoiky-scythe and Town went round and round in circles around the Hapless Hampshireites. Percy plucked a right pickling plopper and Barker shinned over the crossbar from three yards out, with Lennie lurking. Lennie's one of the great lurkers of our time. Lennie grazed the corner onto the roof of the net.

Oh well, Eastleigh then.

The return of Captain Sensible and the Milky Bar Kid saw a return to a future that will soon be past. Pleasantly ambling adversaries allowed Town to tiptoe through the tulips and, for once, they did not refuse to skip gaily through those mellow meadows.

Goals. Attacking. Freedom! Clap your hands, clap your hands, clap your hands, clap your hands. Hey yeah. Now let's get ready for the annual bump and grind.