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Crowe: Howler
Crowe: Howler

09/04 Wycombe 2nd Half

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 10/04/2005

NO changes were made by either side at half time. Could they walk back on to the pitch any slower? Here's a highlight: Crowe ran down the left, looked up, picked his spot precisely and crossed softly into Talia's hands at the near post. Fabtastic wasn't it.

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

Grimsby Town 0 Wycombe Wanderers 0
09 Apr 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Twiddle your thumbs.

How do little old ladies open bottles of bleach? They don't, which explains a lot, I suppose.

Don't mind us lads, carry on humping the ball out of play; we'll just continue nattering about this and that. It's one of the last chances we'll get to see people for a few months. Going anywhere nice on holiday? Having a fourth storey built? Is there any point in this football club? Why do birds suddenly appear? Why do fools fall in love? Why don't they do it in the road? Why? Why? Why? The computer usually blows up at this point.

Ah, it did. Steam came out of the crowd's ears as pass after pass winged its way out of play. No-one could pass it, no-one could control it. Requests for re-arranging the deckchairs were made. Our Gallic charmer was demanded by most, though a couple had a hankering to actually see Downey actually play, actually. Some people want to see the Taj Mahal, others the great wall of China. But me, yes, me, I'd like to tell other people's grandchildren that I saw Glen Downey play. Get 'im on Russ.

Ooh, look at that, a pass. Another, ooh, and another. Hey, good old fashioned Town football down the left, Crowe nicking, tricking, flicking to Parkinson and back as the Crowe flies down the wing and into the area. One more time, Ringo, as Crowe tapped the ball back to Parkinson at the near post, who laid a first time pass to the unmarked Fleming. Sit back down, it's Flemo, the pretty dire Flemingo, please go. Alone, vastness before him, so many options, so much choice; ah choice, the holy grail of consumer capitalism. What's wrong with choice? In the wrong feet, it's a disaster. With thirteen channels to choose from his amazing powers of observation spotted the only defender between him Gritton, Coldicott and half of Oliver's army: he passed directly to the defender. The Pontoon laughed and demanded Le Professeur on the pitch, now.

There had been a steady drizzle since half time, which had, curiously, followed the ball around the pitch, rather like the rain cloud that used to hover above the Creepy Coupé. Yeah, Grimsby and Wycombe, the gruesome twosome, yeah.

Wycombe had a corner on their right, some bloke headed it downwards and goalwards, the ball shizzling back out of the area as quickly as it came in. The Choirboys behind the goal cleared their throats. Who cleared the ball? Is his identity known? May have been close, may not, we'll never know, nor care.

Rodger and Slade stood together on the touchline, comparing notes. Perhaps they were playing Pictionary? Is it 3-5-2 Russ? No, it's a car crash Graham.

With 20 minutes left Town gave the ball away on the left, with Ramsden floundering in the middle of the Humber. Tyson hit a return to Senda who sped off up their right, trailed by no-one. Forbes sidled back into the area, stood his ground and eventually headed off the war party. The ball was pulled back into the centre and Whittle's backside proved its worth. It either blocked the ball or blocked the sun, one of the two; either way danger dissipated.

Anthony Williams
John McDermott
Justin Whittle
Terrell Forbes
Rob Jones
Simon Ramsden
Terry Fleming
Jason Croweyellow card
Stacy Coldicott
Martin Gritton
Andy Parkinson


Ronnie Bull73 mins
Thomas Pinault72 mins
Tony Crane
Nick Heggarty
Glen Downey


Eddie Evans


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Finally Cyril, a change, with Pinault replacing Fleming and Bull swapping for Ramsden. There was an immediate upping of the tempo, Town just looking more likely to...get near the Wycombe goal. Pinault's passes were marginally overhit, inches out, but at least it was something. Bull provided attacking width, overlapping, passing crossing; just doing things rather than looking like a lost soul swimming in a fish bowl. A great Bull slide to dispossess. He was ok, his absence had made our hearts grow fonder for him.

Wycombe took off someone who nobody had realised was on the pitch and brought on Philo the pastry boy. Stonebridge, it was Stonebridge who was taken off. Had any one told him he was playing? It was money for nothing for him. Pinault: great pass. Parkinson: asleep and stumbling. Moment lost, Wycombe break, Jones has long legs.

With ten minutes left the Wacky Wycombe assistant manager was sent off for throwing the ball away twice within a couple of minutes. I think he'd sussed out a way of escaping this prison. Tunnelling out with a spoon would have taken too long. And did Town make this one man advantage tell? No, typical Town.

Have you noticed that Town haven't had a shot in the second half? We had. Five minutes left, that leaving ritual almost upon us: the warm fire and toasted tea cakes beckon; the lilting tones of John Tondeur scrabbling for something to say about this festival of dung; the complaints from those dedicated Town fans who didn't come. We just need to concede to complete the day. C'mon Wycombe, you're supposed to be going for the play-offs. C'mon, you can do it if you really try. Ooh, a substitution from them, the lovely-haired Dixon gambolling down the right. Oops, a deep, deep cross swung to the back post. Dixon unmarked about eight yards out, Williams flailing, ailing, trailing the floppy-haired fopster. Dixon stopped, nodded and headed down vertically, the ball bouncing up into Williams' chest as he dived forward.

That's it, is it? Can we go now? No, he's at it again, hairboy Chairboy haring down the wing, leaving paceless Staceless ruminating about his choice of transport to the game. Onwards, onwards, inwards, will he shoot? Will he heck as like. Forbes made a brilliantly timed tackle, sliding in from Spurn Point without the aid of the Humber Lifeboat.

So, is that it? No, Town bothered to have a go at goal. After a small spell of pressure dictated by Pinault following a free kick, McDermott swung the ball in from the right to the far post, Jones rose and missed the ball. Gritton lurked behind, unmarked and from six yards out, ducked his head and guided the ball a foot or so wide. Marty did well to avoid getting his header on target.

So that's definitely it, then? No, in the third minute of the one minute of added time Wycombe swung a loopy, droopy cross from left to right. The ball wobbled down through the area, Jones missed and Williams stayed on his line, whilst Bull stood still. There was a bit of hibblage and bibblage and a shot that hit some Town players somewhere inside the area. Ooh, matron that was painful, and that really, really honestly was it. The whistle was just about heard above the cacophony of silence.

Gorman thanked Russo Slado for his efforts: "Thank you very much, thank you very, very, very much" is the what a mad, bad lip-reader claims was said. If they'd tried harder they'd have won, but they didn't. More fool them.

Town must be saving themselves for the Big One. It's the only explanation I can find. Gritton acted as Wycombe's libero, sweeping up in front and behind their centre backs, snuffing out danger with a flick of his quiff and a shake of his hips. Town's only tactic seemed to be chip it behind for Parky. When Pinault came on he shrugged his shoulders a lot when he had the ball, asking for movement, getting none. Crowe didn't have a backwards gear, which is a nice way of saying he wasn't interested in defending. He stood around a lot when the ball was lost. Enough analysis: it was just rubbish. Is there nothing to positive to grab hold of? Perhaps a couple of electrodes?

Now Pauline, would you say this game was egregious?

Nicko's Man of the Match

Keeping his fashionably woolly hat tight around his fashionable ears Nicko heard voices in his head. Jones was perfectly adequate, doing that defending thing, not giving the ball away too often when clearing, but Mr Terrell Forbes, just, for a marvellous sliding scooping saving tackle, and all round trying and okayness.

Markie's Un Man of the Match

Take your pick from Fleming or Crowe, with Gritton trudging up on the far side by the stands. We've forgiven Ramsden: he shouldn't have been playing at left wing back; that's plain stupid, that is. And at least Parkinson never stops trying. It's coming up to summer: PYO soft fruit.

Official Warning

Mr Dame Edith Evans. Sorry, Eddie Evans: I have a cold. He didn't even have the good grace to be rubbish, or make any daft decisions to liven up this dead parrot. Sending off Brown was an act of kindness. He gets 6.66, because he's a referee and it kinda feels an appropriate number.

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