10/09 Peterborough Part 2

Peterborough 0 Grimsby Town 1
10 Sep 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Yes Farrell, we're talking about you, spinning and spooning down their left, Mr Macca eased you away and tapped the ball against you for our throw. You've been Macca'd: welcome to the 600 club, you get a little badge and a certificate of authenticity. But not a T-shirt: you have to buy that.

The game becalmed, dull parity, the clouds greying, Quinn's hair flopping. Boom! Quinn swivelled 25 yards out on the left and bazookered a dipping half volley straight into Mildenhall's chest. A smile, a cheeky wink and the Mildster whacked it upfield as far as he could. Peterborough were still fizzing, but their little bubbles were further up the pitch. Jones and Whittle solid, not soiled. They couldna get through captain. Logan's runs were pretty, but pretty pointless. You thought I was going to make a joke there? Nah, you can't do jokes when you're over 30.

Twenty minutes and seventeen seconds: "Sort it Slade". An early one today.

Mildenhall amused himself chasing an orange balloon, amusing us with his sitcom inability to stamp on it. Mildo the clown gave up after his third attempt to burst it. They really should have played some suitable music over the tannoy at that point. Well, they do it for goals so why not other cultural high points?

Burton suddenly burst forward from centre back, dribbling on and on into the Town half, exchanging passes. A flabbergasting flat shot zoomed low across Mildenhall, who parried aside. Farrell lurked, Macca put on his brown overalls, took out his trusty bucket and mopped up the spillage. He even polished the spot afterwards, lovely and clean. Posh starting to push. Ah, not too posh to push these pregnant Poshies. I haven't mentioned Parkinson yet. No need, he is a small island in an ocean of doubt. What is the point of Parky? Is he a some kind of decoy, like those false towns that were built in the second world war to stop Sheffield being obliterated? Croft was exposed in the light. Nobody knew where Parky was, how near or how far from the touchline. At least Cohen was back covering for Macca when he raided, if nothing else.

Have Town attacked? Oh yes, a free kick, that's nice. It's only taken twenty five minutes to get one. Hurled in from the right, Jones the Stick leapt and nodded back across goal whereupon Jones the Lump stood on the ball six yards out. OOOOOOOOO ....offside anyway. We rang once, no-one home. We'll come back in twenty minutes.

Let's slow the game down, let's not get too hasty with these things, eh? Modern life, no time to think about things. Mildenhall showed great concern for the state of the pitch, too many divots my dear McDermott. Oh, Quinn again, pot shooting from afar, straight at Mildo's heado. He doesn't flap them laddie. We're cool about the goalie these days. Oh, Quinn again, the terror of Ferdinand being an occasional pest to Town. Poshies moved on a break and dinked a cross from their left to the far post. Whittle slept and allowed Quinn to sneak around the back. Macca covered, but Quinn, eight yards out, lashed him with his quiff, and the ball zoomed a foot wide of the left hand post. You can say that again, they're getting closer. Gain surging, Gain crossing, through the area, blue feet not far away, pressure mounting. Quinn falling, the referrer falling for it. A free kick, 25 yards out in the centre, the wall ducking and diving, Mildenhall's view obstructed, the shot seeking out further advertising hoardings to destroy. Ah, nice.

"I can't think of anything - this game's stolen my brain."
"Is Rob Jones the only one who can tackle?"
"Shane Warne's been sent off at Oldham."
"Gary Jones moves like a gazelle. A dead gazelle."
"Well I believe Macca's shirt says GOD."