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12/03 Boston Part 2

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 13/03/2005

FLEMING and Parkinson just didn’t know where to stand, ending up as piggies in the middle, neither attacking nor defending, ceding space. Boston had three where Town had one. Macca and Bull constantly turned and frazzled; Macca appalling, Bull aspiring towards dreadful.

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

Boston United 1 Grimsby Town 1
12 Mar 2005, Coca Cola League 2

They could hardly stand up. Fenlanders fizzing, Mariners mauled. So, so bad the Town fans were reduced to shouting at their own feet in frustration. Our shoelaces were burning.

Crosses kneed away, headers lifted back to Noble and Charley Farley Rusk, patrolling space 25 yards out. Coldicott nut-megging himself with every tackle, missing the ball, missing the man, missing in action. Who’s the midfield enforcer? Pinault. Pinault the hard mad, the terrier, the last hanging thread by which the Town curtain remained up against the window. So this man can’t tackle? He was the only one who did.

Hello Gritton, hello Harrold. Seen the ball lately? Didn’t think so.

Wahey, a shot, finally. One of their identikit stubby midfielders wafted woefully wide after some pitiful ping pong. This is worse than the Grand Guignol at Glanford. A collection of furry animals representing Grimsby couldn’t have produced anything worse.

Good grief, a Town pass! Well, when I say pass Forbes lofted the ball over the top down the centre left. As things go these days, that’s a pass. Harrold chased, hassled, turned the defender and wriggled free inside the area. About 15 yards out he attempted to steer a lob across and over Abbey, who sailed into the sun, parrying the ball aside in unnecessarily spectacular fashion. About ten minutes had gone. It felt like a decade. Down here time goes even slower than a tractor on the A52.

Are they repairing the roof or is there a drummer hiding in the garden shed to our right?

More Boston attacks, more nothingness. Crosses and fiddling, but no efforts on goal. They busied themselves nibbling at the Town ankles, but Williams was unfazed. He watched wistfully as the ball floated by. Gritton had a shot. Drivelling, scribbling low without venom, without vim, straight to the bored Abbey.

More of the same from them. The suggestion of danger. Clare tricksy but typically ineffective, always looking to be likely. Yeah, I know he had scored, these things happen occasionally. A free kick to them, into the wall. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh". We’re losing the will to live.

Pinault tried to pull strings, but they weren’t attached to anything. There was a twenty minute period in which the ball was lost. Men were running around the field, barging into each other, but that inflatable thing was absent. Was this the half time entertainment - a modern dance interpretation of a football match. No, no, Forbes wasn’t wearing tights.

With about 5 minutes left the Boston centre back found the ball underneath a bag of parsnips and wellied it from one end of the pitch, straight down the middle, into Williams’ midriff. A huge cheer rose from the bowels of the Town support. It was irony on so many levels I haven’t got time to list them.

Anthony Williams
John McDermott
Justin Whittle
Terrell Forbes
Ronnie Bullyellow card
Terry Flemingyellow card
Thomas Pinault
Stacy Coldicott
Andy Parkinson
Martin Gritton
Matt Harroldgoal


Michael Reddy61 mins
Graham Hockless
Rob Jones
David Soames
Glen Downey


Mick Russell


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And the rest of the half was Town, suddenly alert, suddenly attacking. Attacking without any individual or collective cohesion, but pressure, of sorts was applied to flimsy homesters. Macca raiding, Gritton, Harrold, and Coldicott indulging in some Sumo wrestling near the bye line, scrum down on the 22 yard line. A Town throw, Forbes flibbled to Parkinson who chested the ball down, turned and poked a shot goalwards. Abbey, slumbering on his porch, gaping at the dapper men with derby hats and canes, swung like a pendulum do onto the risibly rolling ball. Parky again, snapping a shot well high, Pinault on the left sluicing a shot from the corner of the penalty area out for...for....for...a goal kick. Just.

Half time: Boston United 1 Grimsby Town 0
That is it.

If you were not there you cannot possibly conceive how devoid of competence Town were. No, no, you can’t. You may think you can, but we know. I’m surprised the local council didn’t offer us some fashionable trauma counselling, or send out the Louth Rescue Dogs to save a few thousand people gradually being swallowed up by this monster. We could sue.

I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

Stu's Half Time Toilet Talk

"I got two cheese-graters and a fork for Mothers' Day."
"Is their manager wearing mascara?"
"Her skin is the same colour as my mum’s sofa."
"That’s someone with a Macca mask, it can’t be the real thing."
"Is Boston market the hot bed of pet beds?"

The report continues in the Second Half.

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