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03/01 Cambridge Part 2

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 04/01/2005

IT was utter rubbish. Town’s formation dictated the flow, with the ball in the air, launched forward by Williams; Pinault an observer, Parkinson getting a headache. Cambridge rarely disturbed, and then only when Town accidentally got it on the floor.

Home > 2004-2005 Season > Reports > Cambridge (h)

Grimsby Town 3 Cambridge United 0
03 Jan 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Have they done anything yet? Oh yes. Easter, lively, slippery when wet, no doubt. On their right, just outside the area, he flipped the ball over Ramsden and sliced a shot a yard or two wide of Williams’ left hand post. A warning.

Around the quarter hour Cambridge had a period of concerted pressure, entirely down to free kicks being given away, and oddly awarded, around the edge of the Town penalty area. From their right, curled inwards, crawling past heads, thighs, knees, feet and eventually Williams’ right-hand post by inches. The Pontoon’s silence tolled a warning for those with ears to hear. Another free kick, form their left, curled in, fly-hacked away, a few wibbles in the heart of Town’s defence. No, totally unfair: Jones and Ramsden were perfectly fine but Forbes was having a stinkingly poor game. He had difficulty with the concept of marking, letting Heath wander all over the place. Fortunately the morning cloud was a wispy, ethereal presence, more suited to a faux impressionist painting by an enthusiastic local amateur. Another cross, watched and wanted by no Townite, a Cambridge leg wafting a volley way wide. Bam, a shot slammed at Williams’s chest from the right edge of the area. Another free kick, shallow on their left. Tudor shuffled his feet, ruffled his hair and muffled the ball several feet over and wide. He huffled and puffled all afternoon, but didn’t blow Town’s house down.

Easter nut-megged Macca. The crowd hushed, a truly historic moment. That sort of thing hadn’t been done since 1893. Britain has lost an entire empire since McDermott was last subjected to such impudence.

The crowd had a snooze for ten minutes, awoke and found the cupboard was still bare. Whistling Jack Smith had a hit in 1967 with "I was Kaizer Bill’s Batman", but had no other record in the top 40. If you hold a tea cup upside down you’ll get wet if you haven’t drunk it first. I don’t want to waste your time, I thought I’d give you some useful facts and tips for longer life. Not everybody has a shrine to David Whitfield in their garden shed.

Where are we now? 34 minutes, 34 long, slllllllllllllooooooooooooowwwwwwww minutes. The crown in full gripe mode. Growling, grizzling, barracking Williams for being slow off his line, uttering enigmatic variations on "Sort it Sladey". A free kick to Town on the centre right, just inside their half. Hoofed upfield, a bit of bumbling about, concentration wavering, seagulls fluttering around the floodlights. Nodded in, nodded out., nodded off. Goal? Eh. You what, where did that come from? Ball somewhere, some heading, out to the left, hit back, Gritton did something, ball flopping about into the centre of the area, Cambos playing musical chairs, Pinault awake and darting forward. Out stretched a fine French leg, Ruddy raced off his line, eventually, and PINAULT slapped the ball in off the right-hand post. Much merriment and pointing at the manager’s bench by the crowd.

Cambridge would have kicked off again, but the ball had been smuggled out of the ground in the back of a police van underneath a blanket. No pictures!. I suppose that’s one way to keep a lead.

Go and boil an egg, do something useful with your next four minutes. But boil it slowly, four minutes hard boiling would make it a little too hard and unpalatable.

Anthony Williams
Terrell Forbes
Simon Ramsden
Rob Jones
John McDermott
Terry Fleming
Jason Crowe
Ronnie Bullgoal
Thomas Pinaultgoal
Martin Grittongoal
Andy Parkinson


Darren Mansaram87 mins
Paul Fraser
Stacy Coldicott
Graham Hockless
Greg Young


Mark Warren


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Here we are, another long ball to nowhere. Why do Town insist on whacking it up to pint-sized Parky? It never, ever works. It never, ever will. Never, never, never, never, never. Ah, a-hem, err, the exception that proves the rule. Forbes chipped the ball up the centre right towards Parkinson who tippled the ball onwards. Crowe surged forward from midfield, into a large gap behind the defence. One bounce, one head on, one glance and a perfectly weighted pass along the edge of the area. BULL, unmarked on the centre left, casually stroked the ball into the bottom right-hand corner. As wondrous a sight as the wildebeest flowing across the savannah, the pyramids across the Nile and the hanging gardens of Nunsthorpe. Actually, it wasn’t an aimless punt and hopeful flick, but a delicate chip and dainty dink by Parky. Nice looking goal, helped by defensive doziness.

Ruddy Hell, eh?

2-0, who’d have thought it? All of us, probably, at 3 o’clock, but not after the drossfest served up so far. Goals were out of keeping with the general air of a dishevelled former debutante at a charity ball on her 5th bottle of cheap champagne. Lots of movement, no co-ordination. She can see the pretty boys, but just can’t seem to reach them.

Did Town have another shot? Maybe, but it wasn’t bad enough to remember for comedic value alone. They did though. Towards the end of the half, after Forbes had nut-megged himself twice, Easter wriggled away on the centre right, just outside the area, vroomed onwards and slashed a firm shot from just inside the penalty area. The ball swirled towards the top left corner and Williams leant to his left and parried away for a corner. Heath, unmarked in the centre, headed weakly wide.

Perhaps they should reinstate Dish of the Day. Bit of bacon, some old potatoes and mushrooms, sprinkle on some Worcester Sauce and season to taste. There you are Forbes’ potato nutmeg. Or am I describing Town’s midfield?

Half time: Grimsby Town 3 Cambridge United 0
Haven’t you realised? It was half time a couple of sentences back. You’ll be at the back of the queue for the pies.

Poor. Town an incoherent stew, thrown together without a recipe. The odd tasty pea mixed in with a lot of fatty scrag-end of pork. How can anyone be a playmaker when the ball is 20 foot above him? Did we have a midfield or was it just a giant game of human dodgems?

Forty five more minutes to endure. It’s like Christmas, isn’t it. You can’t go home yet, just make the best of it.

Stu's Half Time Toilet Talk

"There’s a compost heap in Tetney the shape of Ayers Rock"
"Jones is growing into Lever’s shorts with every game"
"Your wife bubble wraps well"
"Is their number 7 Lovejoy in disguise?"
"We always beat teams with a cathedral""

The report continues in the Second Half.

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