It'll All Come Out in the Pugwash
- 36 minutes ago
- 6 min read
Fleetwood (A) - EFL League 2 - 21st February 2026
I believe this report truly started on Thursday for me, during a relatively new exercise at work where my fellow colleagues and I are asked about our well-being. "Yeah, I'm alright," I replied as we went round the room. "You sure? You looked miserable when you walked in this morning," a colleague replied. This was two days on from Harrogate, another occasion on which that horrible, smarmy pillock Weaver and his merry band of shithouses had got one over on us…AGAIN. Realistically, I've watched just over 500 games involving the football, 17 of which have involved Harrogate, what did I truly expect? As I walked out of Holker Street on Tuesday night I felt a sense of emptiness, neither angry nor upset. Could this lot truly keep us up? Are there really two teams worse than us? These thoughts, amongst many others, went round my mind as I trudged back up Cemmy Hill. I walked in and told my partner, "No chance I'm watching that again on Saturday."
Anyway, what a lie that all was, and here I am writing the match report for Fleetwood. A team that seems marooned in mid-table since the departure of Pete Wild in what I can only assume was a 'bump in the road' in his managerial career. I wish I was still hearing that on a semi-consistent basis...
We set off with no real expectation; a draw would leave us pretty much par for the course over the last three games, with a win taking us into a place I believe only our local radio commentator can reach when celebrating Canavan's late winner against Colchester.
We were greeted with a friendly welcome by our hosts and friends from Lancashire Police, I think that's the first time I've encountered them and not been met with cursed looks and snarls. It did make me think that maybe we should replace more of them with dogs and horses. As I wandered in via the fire exit due to a failure in the e-ticket system (Mr Piley can't have wired enough funds across from D-Wing), I was greeted with a solid backing of Barrovians, an exceptional effort, may I add, considering our recent form. I took in my surroundings, shocked to see the state of the playing surface. I thought the sandcastles were to be left to their neighbours down the tram lines?
Two changes: Gordon to partner Rose as he did when he came on Tuesday, and Joe Anderson to replace the injured Raglan, fine by me, considering him and Canavan playing together makes me shudder. You'd think one of them might have led the group in a slightly more 'chest out and sit up' manner that our manager demands. Just then a motivational speech came across the tannoy, Jesus Christ, I thought, has Paul Gallagher returned? Apparently, trying to motivate fans and players in a low, monotone manner is quite commonplace in North Lancashire.
We kicked off; two minutes in and Harper had hooked the ball into the main stand. At that point I debated packing up and going home, but was shortly greeted with a powerful header from the posh seats by a punter. I wonder if he is one of the free agents Dino is looking at?
Now, ladies and gents, some may see this as an exaggeration, but you'll have to bear with me here. Newby wrestles in the middle of the pack, bravery, strength, commitment, and desire all in one move, feeding Jackson, who laid the ball inside to McCann, who plays a ball so delightful I thought I was watching Andrés Iniesta. Gordon runs across the keeper and…PENALTY! SH**E! WHAT DO WE DO? WE HAVEN'T HAD ONE OF THESE…Hang on, did Newby just win a 50/50? Never mind, someone grab the ball. Now, this reporter hasn't watched a Barrow penalty for some time, as I resemble someone trying to start the Poznan and rely on the collective noise of the away end to define the outcome. GET IN! 1-0, the dream start, if you wish.
We pressed on, this time with Newby playing a dinked ball over the Fleetwood defence, to which Shaun Rooney panicked more than when he hears a knock at the door on a Sunday morning following a heavy night out. Corner in…CANAVAN, 2-0. Right, even at that point I smiled. The captain has come under some criticism in recent times, a large chunk of which has come from myself, but this was lovely. We'd taken command of the game and were deservedly in front, all the while via a set piece and a penalty. This was anti-Barrow, nothing we'd seen before, and yet still I was nervous.
Newby, who was having his game of the season, was brought off with a knock, and we heard the half-time whistle go. Now, any normal supporter of a football team would be delighted at this point, 2-0 up away from home, no real threat on their goal from the home side, and a pretty straightforward first half, but it was abundantly clear there was a nervousness in the air. We are, in fact, only a one-half team this season, and that was the ultimate first half as far as I was concerned.
The second half commenced. Fleetwood came out like a side that had just been bollocked, with more intent from Ennis down the right-hand side. Acrobatic clearances followed from our defence, which stood reasonably strong. A chance fell to Isaac Fletcher, which forced a fantastic save out of Lynch.
Changes for Fleetwood as Osong entered the fold, a run down the left-hand side and…sh**e. The ball appeared to hit the bucket and spade that had been left in front of the goal, when in reality it struck a trailing Barrow defender's leg, leaving a delightful tap-in for the Fleetwood man. They'd broken through our resilient defence with a massive slice of good fortune. A sickness hit my stomach, surely even we can't do this. The body language from our players as they walked back to the halfway line was mixed; no leader shone through, and there was nobody wanting to take command.
Now, if you're absolutely deranged and reading this to the children before bed, I must advise that you tell them the game went on to end at this point, because what follows can only be described as something straight out of a Stephen King novel.
We approached 90 minutes and I thought we'd managed to ride out and battle through what was a complete onslaught at that point. Boy, was I wrong. Another run down the left-hand side came, and another drive across the box. SH**E. For some reason, Niall 'I Am the Man' Canavan decided that the basic principle of following your man across the front post didn't apply to him. 2-2, an awful position to find ourselves in having looked so comfortable in the first half, but a result we would have taken pre-kick-off. Another drive came down the left-hand side in the dying embers of stoppage time, and I don't think I can put into words what Stanway managed to do here, but the ball nestled into our net. 3-2, the third installment of Captain Pugwash. There it was, the feeling of anger had come over me again, the feeling of despair and sickness mixed in my stomach. How on earth had we managed to throw that one away?
I wandered back to the car after full time. Is this it? Was that the final blow, of which there have been many this season? Can this group recover mentally ahead of Gillingham next week at home? As we headed back down the 590, results had largely gone okay for us.
If for some reason supporters thought we'd get out of this situation and climb towards the lower mid-table, perhaps this serves as a final reality check, for them, and perhaps for the board, who have noted that this squad should be performing much higher given the investment commitment. We are now collectively up the creek without a paddle, and only those 20-odd blokes can get us out of this mess. A final plea to those 20: be the ones who are remembered as the leaders and the fighters, not the ones who cowered away when it mattered.