27/08 Barnet Part 2

Barnet 0 Grimsby Town 1
27 Aug 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Four boys in white hats under the snack bar, boys on the town: Bar-net, Bar-net it's a helluvva Town, the schoolyard's up and the shopping mall's down. Yes, but what about the football?

Newey kept fouling, Newey kept giving the ball away. Newey-Newey-no-ey, booked-y for a fourth rubbish tackle-y. The boy's becoming a liability: is he this year's Tony Crane? What would that make Tony Crane?

Still Barnet muckled about: brief moments, fleeting, almost this, nearly that, but nothing to report. Twenty nine minutes gone and the first "Sort it!" of the afternoon. Have Town attacked? Ah yes, piddling and fiddling on the left, a Kalalalalalalala-bamba cross and Parkinson stooped to head the ball way over the bar from about 10 yards out at the far post. A minute later a further brief encounter with football. Stood on the station exchanging glances, if not telephone numbers, Reddy's train steamed out of High Barnet. He rhubarb and custarded through two challenges on the edge of the area, drivelling the ball low to Tynan's left. Only the Ceefax-watchers cooed. The next Northern line train to Barnet is not approaching, you'll have to wait for 13 minutes on platform 2.

Still the Barnet beavers gnawed away on the Town tree trunk. Sinclair was a permanent threat, infiltrating at will; Newey absent, devoid of thought, a lost soul swimming in a fish bowl leaving Ramsden exposed to Strevens' trickery and pace. Town were stout, stoic and strong; Macca was magnificient, Jones imposing. Corner after corner, pressure mounting. Ooh, Charles rising free and plonking a free header into the next borough. Another corner was pulled back and hoiked into the hedge behind the Town fans. Pssssssssst, the ball's deflating quicker than the Barnet fans' expectations. Nice.

Still Sinclair roamed the land, still Mildenhall stomped across the Savannah plucking the ball from feet, heads and all points in between. A save, low to his right, held with confidence. Town fans content as he barked instructions and encouragement to his defence. Sir, you are no Anthony Williams. Sinclair again: tickling, tockling; Bailey too, a sudden pass and nearly through. Mildenhall swiping down upon Ravioli, the ball loose, the ball cleared: happiness. Hey, a Town attack, Jones flicking, Reddy rolling, Bolland and Kalalalalalala ladling the ball between them and across the face of the Barnet defence, 25 yards out. Boom, a Kalalalala slicer, destroying a greenhouse in the back garden of 23 Westcombe Drive. "What about my sweet peas?" Indeed: blame it on the boogie.

Newey, a final nail in his coffin, diddled and daddled after Ramsden had superbly dispossessed Graham. Two Barnetians swooped. Graham, free inside the area, sent a fizzer frying across Mildenhall. It was saved and soothed away by Whittle. We can sleep safely again, those shadows are just illusions. It's all in the mind.

The innings ended with a run out, the half ended with a whimper. Time for tea.

"In Grimsby if you can remember the 60s you were there."
"I hope they have enough balls."
"Three hundred miles was a long way to go to buy a kettle."
"Even a one-legged Croft would be better."
"Is this an Olympic venue?"