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Andrew: Salmon-Like
Andrew: Salmon-Like

27/08 Barnet 2nd Half

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 29/08/2005

TOWN made two changes at half time: Gritton replaced Reddy and Andrew came on for ..,hang on, what's all this? Wahey! Ho-ho-ho, hee-hee-hee, we're the laughing gnomes. Town kicked off, knocking back to Ramsden who launched a long punt up the left.

Home > 2005-2006 Season > Reports > Barnet (a)


Barnet 0 Grimsby Town 1
27 Aug 2005, Coca Cola League 2

The ball hung, ANDREW swung and, like two Ben Chapmans, sailed majestically upon thermals, gliding, hovering and hoopling a header over Tynan from the edge of the area. Their man at the back was ready to crack as he raised his hands to the sky. Oh, how we laughed at the goal and at their centre half, Charles, with his hairy homage to George Berry. Oh kids, you really don't know what you've missed with George Berry.

And again, Town up and at 'em. G Jones flickering through, Macca teased away down the right, crossing just behind Gritton. Gritton disrobed a centre-back on the touchline with The Lord of all Macfullness racing clear. He looked up and caressed a pass to Gritton, who spun and hooked a shot towards the right hand corner. Tynan clipped his toenails, applied some creosote to his goalposts and scooped the ball up as it rolled past his petunias. What would Alan Titchmarsh say about that? The Barnet flowerpotmen were wilting withTown raiding freely down the right. A throw in, chucked to Gritton turning and hooking goalwards, Tynan kept a straight face whilst collecting the small change.

Ah, this is nice, an afternoon amongst friends. Lovely.

Barnet upped the pace, challenges crunched and crackled, the game played at a crackerjack velocity. Their supporters, roused from slumber, were beginning to roar. The referee was induced into giving free kicks; what would follow? The game was gradually seeping towards the Town goal; it was like American football - three falls to go ten yards. C'mon, c'mon touch me babe, and we'll get a free kick. They did. Free kick, corner, free kick, corner; all taken with great deliberation; like Masterchef, they cogitated near to constipation. Get on with it! Why did they bother? Charles free at the far post headed hugely high. Unlike his hair, which was highly huge. Another ball, from their left, flung to the far post, was headed into the replacement greenhouse. "Ruddy hooligans".

This wasn't football, it was celebrity shirt swapping. Jones and Charles were admiring the stitching on the inside of each others shirts. And shorts. The referee tutted a lot. Ramsden was booked for persistently annoying the home support with rambunctious ram raiding of his winger, the ball an optional extra. Push me, pull me, hoof, hump, clobber, clatter, biff, crash bang wallop, offside, onside, over the slips for four. The cricket was losing its fascination as Barnet pummelled Town. Heads headed, knees knocked, Mildenhall caught everything.

Ooh, that was close. A corner on their left swung to the near post, grazed onwards and Charles, a few yards out, intercepted the ball, swivelled, fell back and hooked the ball over the roof of 21 Westcombe Drive. How could he miss? A leading scientist in the Town end (someone with grade B physics) claims that the weight of his hair caused him to overbalance, losing control and co-ordination.

That's much better: Town broke on through to the other side of Underhill after Kalalalalalalala and Bolland mugged a Barnetian. Passing, movement, a wiggle of the hips and a scoopy scrape and turn, G Jones acted as a wall, Kalalalala-dimba swirled a half volley into the chest of a waiting Town teenager. Oooh, just a few feet wide. We're back again, Andrew and Macca picking a pocket or two down the right, with Macca supporting and curving a cross towards the waiting Gritton, a dozen yards out at the near post. The re-animated Celt hunched down and flicked a diving header straight into Tynan's arms. Nice move, promising, got us on our feet and roaring.

Steve Mildenhall
John McDermottyellow card
Justin Whittle
Rob Jones
Simon Ramsdenyellow card
Andy Parkinson
Paul Bollandred card
Jean-Paul Kamudimba
Tom Neweyyellow card
Gary Jones
Michael Reddy


Martin Gritton45 mins
Gary Croft73 mins
Calvin Andrewgoalyellow card45 mins
Terry Barwick
Glenn Downey


Steve Dorr


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With about 20 minutes to go Croft came on for Ramsden, presumably before the crowd sent him off. All hands on deck, all hands on deck, the Barnet brig is about to attack on the port bow. The busying Bees made a series of substitutions hauling off defenders and replacing them with attackers, the ball flung furiously forward, bodies hurtling into each other. Graham barundled through two challenges, on their right, the ball ricocheting once, twice, thrice into his path. A cross shot towards the near post was smothered without fuss by Mildenhall. Crosses from the left, crosses from the right, bargeball, not football. The ball was rebounding at crazy angles, Mildenhall imperious, impervious to the little blackshirts snapping at his heels. Town heads were emerging from the morass to clear, Town boots poking out to block. Frantic and frentic: finesse merely a clothes shop in the High Street. Barnet were fraying and flinging abuse at the officials. Oo-er, just because you're losing; keep your hair on.

Town were infrequent visitors to the Barnet half, Parky sent free, oozed away by the defender with just a squint a quiet word in his ear. Time ticking down, Town players being booked every minute. More pressure, more corners, more flan-flinging, more moaning, more bookings. Relief, a Town throw in; despair, another sending off. Bolland and a Barnet player grizzled at each other when Town got a throw in on the left, underneath the Underhill posse. Bolland held the ball, the Barnet player growled into his face and appeared to knock the ball out of Bolland's hands. Bolland was booked, shouted at the referee, and was booked again. Town players surrounded the referee to hand him the petition they'd just signed, holding a candlelit vigil and singing "We shall overcome" in a peaceful protest. Minor pandemonium, play on.

There were four minutes of added time.

The ball was wellied high, there was dancing, there was prancing, there was mincing too, but no chances were being created. Town broke away with Andrew, three against two. He looked up, looked for instruction, then ran into the corner. The referee gave Barnet a free kick for an invisible foul. The ball was back again in the air, fighting, biting, kiting: a corner. Another corner, half cleared, crossed back to the far post and a header looped across and over Mildenhall. From the mists of time an ancient warrior returned to save his nation. McDermott rose and headed the ball off the line. Our hero. Barnet still didn't know who they were dealing with - the perfect defending machine. Town broke, four against two. Andrew advancing, Kalalalalala sprinting forward, Gritton waiting in the centre. Andrew underhit his pass and.., that was it, victory.

The sweet smell of success. Town were organised, determined and professional. At no time did they look like losing, for Barnet huffled and puffled but didn't even get to the front door, they just wailed at the garden gate. Town have a large front garden. Plaudits all along the watchtower at the back, with the three sentries in the midfield guard house getting a ribbon on their medals. Town did enough, and even looked likely to string passes together when attacking. Andrew was lively and direct, a sort of stronger less dizzy Mansaram, whilst Gritton appeared to be focussed upon his present job, rather than a game of darts in his local next Tuesday. G Jones was efficient and not without hints of skill. The longer the game went on the more direct Barnet became, until they just went route one. They looked like a team who wanted to pass the ball but were reliant upon pace, rather than a playmaker. A few strategically placed roadblocks were all it took to confuse them. Sound familiar?

The music was soothing and every Town fan was groovin'. Now we know what was under the tarpaulin: three points - and they're ours.

Nicko's Man of the Match

We love saying "we told you so". We told you so Russ, four defenders, four midfielders. Jones was a colossus, but restored to his plinth John McDermott was macca-nificent, defending with his head and hips, not with hope. The last minute header off the line was the icing on a particularly sweet cake.

Markie's Unman of the Match

Forty five minutes of total terribleness, incapability on a brown-field site. Tom Newey: oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. You are new, so this is the slack you get: must do better.

Rob's rant of the day

"Howzat" to a ball pitching outside leg stump.

Official Warning

Mr S Dorr. The camp crusader, shut that Dorr. Weak, a daytripping official seeking the easy way out. He'll get his licence revoked for he's broken an iron law of football: he booked John McDermott; ergo he has no competence. Easily influenced by the moaners and groaners in the popular stand he always looked likely to send someone off. So George Daws, what's the score? 3.786.

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