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Grimsby Town 1 Chester City 0
22 Feb 2005, Coca Cola League 2
The wind, the wind, that great Grimsby wind, screaming in from the Humber, causing a rush of hat purchasing in the club shop. Keep your ears warm and the Mariners afloat.
How many mascots do Town have? There were more tiny tots taking pot shots at the Mighty Mariner than there were Chester fans. I suppose it’s one way to reduce the debt.
Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation, as shown. Indifference abounds: no Pinault, again, so no passing, again? Sighing, and shrieking in the stands - two stoppers and a runner in midfield. Is Mr Russell Slade a carpet-fitter or a football manager? Ramsden at right back? Crowe at right wing? Words failed a man with an active vocabulary of 476 words: he just squawked like a bodysnatcher.
As the substitutes kicked around on our home ground, filling up the moments that made up a dull ten minutes we were treated to a masterclass in party tricks from Pinault in plus fours; the walking talking work of art, the boy who stole our hearts. Hockless surly and resentful at his thunder being stolen, in front of his claque too. Is he the fans favourite or some fans favourite?
Which brings us neatly to Jevons, last year’s Hockless, the après Terry Cooke if you will. Ignored and applauded in equal measures. You can’t hear people ignore, can you. Who’s the Amankwaah at the back?
Dish of the Day: Martin Gritton’s sushi, which, like the rest of the glitterati of Grimsby, he gets from Ernie Beckett’s, no doubt. Do you want mushy peas and tea with that? If you insist on raw fish with your vinegared rice then watch out for those nematodes and worms. But enough about Sestanonovich, that was Tuesday’s boo-fest. And be careful when cutting up your Hootie and the Blowfish, you might poison someone with soft southern boogie pop.
In an historic low for Grimsby Town Football Club, a player wore tights. Terrell in Tights sounds like an avant-garde Soho revue rather than a tough tackling Town centre half. He ain’t as pretty as Justin Whittle, or tough like Jason Crowe. Nor does he have sideburns quite like Frank Worthington.
1st half
Yeovil kicked off towards the Pontoon and kept the ball, blatantly flouting the rules of association football. To quote Rule 14.3(a)(iv) "the game shall be started by hoofing the ball out for a throw in 23 yards from the bye-line". Rules are rules, c’mon ref.
They kept it, nothing much happened. Twirling and swirling, pretty, pretty patterns of green and white. Laughin', spinnin', swingin' madly across the pitch. It wasn’t aimed at anyone. Town! No, Weale wheeled out and plucked the ball away from Reddy’s flowing locks after someone, probably Fleming, headed a cross forward. Yeah, boring. No, not really. Nothing happened but it was a better quality of nothingness than Tuesday’s little shop of horrors. A Coldicott curler down the left, Gritton raced on, turned inside and hit a perfect pass to Parkinson’s toes. Lindegaard walked tall into the path of the pint-sized Parky and looked him right in the eye. The moment passed without publicity.
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Darren Drysdale