The Grimsby Town FC


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7Accrington Stanley13119

9Crawley Town13-119
12Notts County13018
21Cambridge Utd13-613
22Leyton Orient13-412

24Newport County11-67

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Will Paul Hurst stay at Grimsby?



29/12 Lincoln Part 2

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 30/12/2004

"HOOF". Yes, we get the drift, as the ball sails forward. Lincoln players didn’t even look where they were kicking it, but punts weren’t punted aimlessly forward. They played to a training ground plan, knowing someone would be somewhere, a forward knowing a ball would be kicked into a particular place.

Home > 2004-2005 Season > Reports > Lincoln (a)

Lincoln City 0 Grimsby Town 0
29 Dec 2004, Coca Cola League 2

Down the channels, over the top, up and at ‘em. Hustle, bustle, a coached team, the whole greater than the sum of the parts. Bang, another shot. Long ball into box, rebound, ricochet, random action and the ball rolled out to Butcher, on the centre right just outside the box. Thwack, zoom, "oooooh", zinging a few inches wide of Williams’ right-hand post.

Richardson, rocking and rolling down the left, around Whittle and Ramsden, towards the bye-line. The ball cracked low across the face of goal, behind the defence. Green at the back post took a step back, leaned back and hit the back of the stand from about eight yards out. Get back to the training ground.

Was it all them? No, these were isolated raids in the maelstrom of madness that was the midfield. Two midfielders leaping, no pear trees though. Bouncing up, elbows out, barging, banging, a stock car demolition derby in the barren wastelands. Ugly, brutish and, in Crowe’s case, short. Fleming rolled up his sleeves and had a right go, revelling in the simplicity of mano à mano leg wrestling. He loved it. As usual all the loose balls fell to Fleming around the penalty box. You know the result.

Ah-ha, Town string half a pass together, on the ground. Lincoln fold. Gritton free down the right, turning, crossing through the box. Mild pandemonium. Squeaks and squalls were heard from the silent locals as the ball rolled through the area. Bull steamed up the left and let fly from 20 yards; the ball shivered across goal and straight to Parkinson, unmarked about 10 yards out. Parky panicked, mis-controlling the ball to his left towards Crowe, who was mugged by three giant barber shop poles in human form. Temporarily imbalanced by close harmony singing inside the penalty area, Crowe passed to Sestanovich and Town retained possession inside the area, being forced wider and wider. Red and white matter was sucked into this black hole, sheer weight of numbers and body fat saving their bacon. Eventually Bull had another shot which sidled through the 6 yards box and wide.

What’s this? More Town? Yep, two team points for perception. Sestanovich and Fleming surged down the middle, Lincoln retreated and gave the ball back to Transit Stan when he missed his gear. Sestan rolled the ball out towards Parkinson. Futcher stretched and missed, allowing Big Ears to swing his pants down the right and flash a low cross in towards the near post. Fleming raced in and yet again just missed the train. He should set his alarm clock a minute earlier, shouldn’t he, or have one less Shredded Wheat. Anyway, a big defender hung a leg out to divert for a corner. Jones headed the said corner very, very wide.

Futcher, the son of the codfather of cool. We bow to thee, our Futcher. Such a Futcher has never been seen by the Impies though. Lean, lanky and Lincoln to the core, Ben had the subtlety of a pantomime horse, there was menace only in his mass. Perhaps talent skips a generation. Shame really, with that gene pool you’d have thought something would have seeped through the evolutionary colander.

Where are we now? How about a Sestanovich free kick? No, thought not. The ball stayed inside the stadium though.

Lincoln lumped it. We didn’t like it. "Hoof". Yes, we still get the drift.

All this scratching around made Town itch, as the ball sometimes fell to Lincoln players. Butcher had another long shot, whistling wide; Toner another, straight at Williams; Green another shot, welching, wheezing wide and high. Have ball will shoot, lamping the ball goalwards from anywhere, our county cousins weren’t afraid to have a go, and their long shooting was generally accurate and firm.

Anthony Williams
Justin Whittle
Simon Ramsden
Rob Jones
John McDermott
Terry Fleming
Jason Crowe
Ronnie Bull
Ashley Sestanovichyellow card
Martin Gritton
Andy Parkinson


Michael Reddy67 mins
Thomas Pinault86 mins
Glen Downey
Paul Fraser
Graham Hockless


Phil Crossley


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None of this scuffly, shanked, sliced and woeful wafting that we have to put up with. It was like they’d actually practiced shooting, as though it was important or something. Cuh, these lower league types, they just don’t understand do they. They probably think football is about scoring goals. How sweet and innocent, eh?

Ooh, Macca raiding, sending Crowe free inside the area. Shoot, shoot, for ch.... Urgh, rubbish fall as a defenders swished away danger. If you’re going to *simulate* don’t fall like you’re praying towards Macca. We don’t have to simulate to accumulate, especially with our fantastical statistical record of penalty missing. A Town penalty is only the same as a Lincoln goal kick, more danger to us than them. Did Lincoln have anymore shots? Nope, the ball was banged in relentlessly, but Town held firm, and were relatively comfortable. It looked like Town had down some thinking and planning, for whenever Big Futch ambled up Jones held his hand and either of the wing backs stood in front, to intercept the dinkled dopples. Lincoln just couldn’t get their pub football going.

Just think, if some Town fans had their way this would have been Town. It’s cheaper to watch it down Bradley pitches. Big Keith knows we demand something more.

Oh Whittle, Whittle why? Air shot, mis-kick, danger created through Whittle woe. Inside the Town six yards box he completely missed the ball, then sliced it against Ramsden. Rammy the Ramster tutted, rolled his eyes and calmly walked away with the ball at his feet. The thought hadn’t occurred to Lincolnites that a professional would do such a thing on his own goal line. A minute later and another Whittle mis-shaped fish finger emerged from the night shift production line. On the right touchline he turned infield and stroked a defence-splitting pass behind Ramsden and way in front of Jones. Green was so surprised he forgot to move his feet. Luckily, Jones arrived and saved the day with a full on man-sized three-ply tackle that swept all before it.

There were two minutes of added time; added, presumably, because someone sneezed in the Stacy West Stand, which actually points north, but there you are. Sestanovich got himself booked for having a bit of flying furry fun with Francis Green. Stuff of nothing, two garden strimmers fighting over the same weed.

Half time: Lincoln City 0 Grimsby Town 0

And that was the first half. Much stargazing, if not hairgazing. We must applaud the linesman running the Town defence, right underneath the Town supporters. He managed to get through the whole half without giving an offside. Tremendous willpower, immense dedication to the cause of incompetence, flying in the face of facts. Well done that man. A typical fourth division scrap, much clattering and back-chattering with a lenient referee allowing the studs to flow. The Boxing Day duds had a ball, if not the ball, with a lot of Greco-Roman wrestling going on. One for the impurists amongst us. But City hadn’t overpowered us; Lincoln’s limitations were exposed by our defensive adequacy.

Their fans are very quiet.

Stu's Half Time Toilet Talk

"I parked opposite The Nail Fairy."
"I don’t know which hole Sestanovich is in, it may be the centre circle".
"There are cobwebs in the ladies loo seats".
"Tell me I’m hallucinating: our worse players are our best ones today".
"The police never stop anyone holding a Marks and Spencer carrier bag".

The report continues in the Second Half.

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