League Two Form Guide
Question of the Week
How long before new manager arrives?
28/03 Rushden Part 2
By: Tony Butcher
WAHEY, their goalkeeper slipped over when punting forward. You have to grasp onto little things these days. Are you listening Anthony Williams? What an odd cove their keeper was, hurling and swirling himself around the area, arms swinging, jumping and jiving. Was he really a keeper?
Grimsby Sleepwalkers 0 Rushden & Diremen 0
Hibble, bibble, a Pinault shot, looped wide, looped high. An effort of sorts, an effort to describe it. What's going on out there? Nothing. No movement, therefore no passing, Pinault performing cartwheels seeking out a pass, faced with a sea of indolence. A Gallic shrug nears. Forbes and Whittle tried to pass the ball out of defence, but then gave up faced by a red wall, deciding to chip a steady stream of nonsense in the vague direction of the front two. This is not what we do, WE are Grimsby, WE play football. It would have helped if some of the males in striped shirts had moved their feet sometimes.
High ball from the right, far post, Gritton head down, Harrold slapped the ball wide at the near post. Not interesting football, nearly something: wasn't. Dull. Percentage football; Town statistically insignificant. Pah and pah again. Has Blundell Park ever been so silent? The game was sinking into a gloop of steaming, festering compost. No skill, no wit, no chances, nothing has changed, it's still the same. Everywhere in Town it's getting dark. Dark, dank, rank. Hark the Harrold angel nearly sings. Pinault, exquisite, sublime, a wondrous cross looping from right to left, dropping perfectly to the unmarked Harrold beyond the far post. The Prince opened up his body and steered a volley low across Shearer who blocked the ball away into the centre of goal, with a bit of scrumblage by his henchmen scrumping danger away under a big red cloak.
In the last minute Whittle and Coldicott decided to do their infamous Chuckle Brothers routine, passing the lukewarm potato between them with boxing gloves on their feet. A Rushdenite embezzled the ball away, using left, then right hand. Off he went down the centre right, down he went under the merest of stares from, err, I dunno, let's say Forbes. Williams hid behind the wall and we awaited the usual one shot, one goal routine. Hello sailor! The ball wafted into the loft apartments atop the Pontoon, knocking over someone's cocoa and an ornamental badger. That, for statistical purposes only, was their shot. The ball just couldn't wait to get on the A180 and vroom out of Town as quickly as possible.
Half time: Grimsby Town 0 Rushden and Diamonds 0
That was the half that wasn't. Half of what? Definitely half empty. Half-baked, half-cocked, half-a-sixpence, halfway up the stairs isn't up and isn't down, it isn't really anywhere. Fleming and Parkinson wasted, neither knew where to stand, caught in the headlights, neither here nor there. Crowe? Can he be bothered to tackle? Is Gritton fit or has he given up? Lop-sided, disjointed, fragments of football, the illusion of cohesion, not so much a performance as a contractual obligation to appear.
Stu's Half Time Toilet Talk
"I have a tree that looks like Ken Dodd."
The report continues in the Second Half.
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