Cod Woe

Grimsby Town (A) - EFL League 2 - 21st March 2026

'Doctor, doctor, please

Oh, the mess I'm in

Doctor, doctor, please

Oh, the mess I'm in'

A slightly surprising playlist from a driver who clearly felt he was at the controls of an interstellar spacecraft as the power rock trundled up the A590.

I was attempting productivity on the bus, so while writing an Easter Service and applying to go to Berlin, various nonsense swirled.

Subjects covered: Sam Foley's role as a Centrist Dad, Kool and the Gang, lavender and urine smells and the unacceptability of Roy Orbison.

The bus quickly wended to the pleasantly posh village pub and as midday chimed we settled down for half an hour of tattoo and sex talk. No, me neither.

Subjects covered: Magaluf tattoos, Channel 4 swingers telly, topless large ladies in the 99 Club, 'Walney Wives' and BDSM and Kays catalogues.

Having horrified everyone under forty, a couple of us piled into a taxi to 'Message in a Bottle' in Cleethorpes to meet train and car Bluebirds. A fabulous pub, with great beer and possibly the best pre-match food I've ever eaten.

The great, relaxed atmosphere was mildly heartened by the return of MJ to the midfield; a couple of our eternal optimists felt positive while most of us simply enjoyed what may well be our last visit. A glass-fisting demonstration later, then off to the match. We started fairly positively, with Barkhuizen being cleverly slipped through early on, only to pull it wide. A good ten minutes, just enough for a flutter of hope as Barrow voices filled the coastal air.

Out, brief candle! We failed to stop the cross for the hundredth time this season, were caught flat-footed again and there, inevitably, was Andy Cook to peel casually away and nod home.

The referee wasn't helping matters as Newby was halved and we doggedly drove on, but lost the ball and then ten seconds later it was up the field in our net as we once again failed to deal with transitions.

Grimsby fans crowed, including a hugely naff group of Icelandic visitors led by a large bald man of questionable taste who was thoroughly enjoying winding up our youngsters. Please, lads, though: the minute 'paedo' chants are out, all originality and style has fled.

'I hate them. I actually fucking hate them,' said a friend among part of the support who were pleading with the barmaid to stay open so we didn't have to go out there.

Second half. I steeled myself. Once again, some unconvincing muscle memory saw us break forward with a couple of dangerous drives and another corner that failed utterly to beat the first man.

The embarrassing Icelanders had been joined on one side by some gormless mutant who was obsessed with patting his own bottom, while the community stand had fake Stone Island dads in shit baseball caps chanting 'Scunny away, ole ole' as Wyll allowed a shot through him.

It was at this point that a teenage Nottingham Forest fan with a mullet attempted to sing 'Ten German Bombers' at the Icelanders, who had by now enjoined the home drummer to help the ground clap like it was 2016.

Misery settled like a shroud as we weakly conceded a fourth and the crowing continued. More shit chants and puerile replies before night descended with the fifth in the very aptly named injury time.

And then it was over. I stood numbly as we went through the nth mea culpa players' visit to a miserable, angry, resigned away end. Those that hadn't sensibly left early.

The Radio Cumbria fan comments and analysis were accurate and rightly damning. Cometh the hour... cometh the Sam. A player and human deserving of huge respect, he's clearly attempting to improve 'the vibe' and so attempted to draw a line under what was a gut-wrenching, atrocious capitulation. 'Eight games to go.' Jesus.

Less understandably, we were treated to 'the lads' and 'endeavour in training'. Once again we were asked to stick with it.

The thing is, we've no choice. We've stuck with shocking recruitment, crap statements, predictably spun fireside radio chats. We've stuck with 'the lads like him', an 'old head' and a 'specialist motivator'. Further back, we were expected to thank our coach for deigning to leave his family to do his job.

Facts. Structurally poor decision-making at board level, for the thousandth time under-investing with the back of house and giving too many roles to too few people with ever-decreasing credibility.

A Director of Chief Executive Football Operations Agent making it up as he goes along. Five managers. Five.

A captain plummeting towards retirement. Some players stealing a wage, others the wrong sort, in the wrong position, at the wrong time. Some brought in without experience, some crocked, and an underwater training ground and average 3G pounding hammies and Achilles tendons.

Stick with it. We will. To the bitter conclusion of this dispiriting season. As Barrow has since 1901. There are 125 reasons to do so.

I write this as a leathered Barrovian drunkenly attempts to encourage us to sing 'Parklife' on a muted bus plunged into the Yorkshire darkness.

'This is a Low' is more appropriate.

Find the words to say goodbye.

February / March 2026

£3.20

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