The Grimsby Town FC


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What is more important, result or style of football?

Style of Football

Mildenhall: Rock
Mildenhall: Rock

10/09 Peterborough Part 2

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 11/09/2005

The Poshies pranced and preened, dominating possession, foundering upon Jones the stick of rock and oozed away by Macca the Magus.

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

Peterborough 0 Grimsby Town 1
10 Sep 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Yes Farrell, we're talking about you, spinning and spooning down their left, Mr Macca eased you away and tapped the ball against you for our throw. You've been Macca'd: welcome to the 600 club, you get a little badge and a certificate of authenticity. But not a T-shirt: you have to buy that.

The game becalmed, dull parity, the clouds greying, Quinn's hair flopping. Boom! Quinn swivelled 25 yards out on the left and bazookered a dipping half volley straight into Mildenhall's chest. A smile, a cheeky wink and the Mildster whacked it upfield as far as he could. Peterborough were still fizzing, but their little bubbles were further up the pitch. Jones and Whittle solid, not soiled. They couldna get through captain. Logan's runs were pretty, but pretty pointless. You thought I was going to make a joke there? Nah, you can't do jokes when you're over 30.

Twenty minutes and seventeen seconds: "Sort it Slade". An early one today.

Mildenhall amused himself chasing an orange balloon, amusing us with his sitcom inability to stamp on it. Mildo the clown gave up after his third attempt to burst it. They really should have played some suitable music over the tannoy at that point. Well, they do it for goals so why not other cultural high points?

Burton suddenly burst forward from centre back, dribbling on and on into the Town half, exchanging passes. A flabbergasting flat shot zoomed low across Mildenhall, who parried aside. Farrell lurked, Macca put on his brown overalls, took out his trusty bucket and mopped up the spillage. He even polished the spot afterwards, lovely and clean. Posh starting to push. Ah, not too posh to push these pregnant Poshies. I haven't mentioned Parkinson yet. No need, he is a small island in an ocean of doubt. What is the point of Parky? Is he a some kind of decoy, like those false towns that were built in the second world war to stop Sheffield being obliterated? Croft was exposed in the light. Nobody knew where Parky was, how near or how far from the touchline. At least Cohen was back covering for Macca when he raided, if nothing else.

Have Town attacked? Oh yes, a free kick, that's nice. It's only taken twenty five minutes to get one. Hurled in from the right, Jones the Stick leapt and nodded back across goal whereupon Jones the Lump stood on the ball six yards out. OOOOOOOOO ....offside anyway. We rang once, no-one home. We'll come back in twenty minutes.

Let's slow the game down, let's not get too hasty with these things, eh? Modern life, no time to think about things. Mildenhall showed great concern for the state of the pitch, too many divots my dear McDermott. Oh, Quinn again, pot shooting from afar, straight at Mildo's heado. He doesn't flap them laddie. We're cool about the goalie these days. Oh, Quinn again, the terror of Ferdinand being an occasional pest to Town. Poshies moved on a break and dinked a cross from their left to the far post. Whittle slept and allowed Quinn to sneak around the back. Macca covered, but Quinn, eight yards out, lashed him with his quiff, and the ball zoomed a foot wide of the left hand post. You can say that again, they're getting closer. Gain surging, Gain crossing, through the area, blue feet not far away, pressure mounting. Quinn falling, the referrer falling for it. A free kick, 25 yards out in the centre, the wall ducking and diving, Mildenhall's view obstructed, the shot seeking out further advertising hoardings to destroy. Ah, nice.

Steve Mildenhall
John McDermott
Justin Whittle
Rob Jones
Gary Croftyellow card
Gary Cohen
Paul Bolland
Jean-Paul Kamudimbayellow card
Andy Parkinson
Gary Jonesgoal
Michael Reddy


Tom Newey79 mins
Martin Gritton45 mins
Terry Barwick46 mins
Tony Crane
Simon Ramsden


Gary Sutton


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Peterborough were racing quicker into the tackle, Town a five man team, defence against all out attack, pinned back inside their own penalty area. The ball in, out, shaken, stirred, boiled, flambéd, grilled, oven-baked, but still no way past Mildo, Mildew, Milders, the Mildster, whatever you want to call him. A long throw chucked in, headed out, sent back in.

Barging, bundling, a bald-headed midfielder mumbling a shot through six legs and a goat. Gasps and gawps as the ball zipped along the turf straight to Mildenhall, who held on. No rebounds, no flaps. Safe.

Town piddling, possession lost; Peterborough freewheeling down the right. Farrell was suddenly free and hanging the ball up to the far post. Croft leant into Quinn and guided him away from goal, the header drifting wide, the Poshies returning to their seats. Poshites breaking again after Parkinson mugged himself in midfield. Farrell again sent behind the defence inside the area, Macca pursuing, shunting him away from goal. Farrell checked back inside as McDermott slid towards Crowland, a clear shot imminent. He pulled his boot back and was disappointed by a travelling salesman selling snake oil charms to repel gnat bites. Whittle blocked with his big brass neck. Gasp, a cross snivelling through to the far post, scraped back across the face of goal, missing the left hand post by the merest of inches as Mildenhall joined the fans on the terrace in standing and waiting for disappointment. And in that he was disappointed, which is enough to make anyone happy.

Is it time yet? Time for what? Time to ring their bell again, for the night is young and full of possibilities. Kalalalalalalalalalalala won possession, surged forward and released McDermott from the half-way line. Forward he cried from the rear and the Blues retreated, allowing him to skip unmolested to the edge of the penalty area. Macca fizzled a low shot across the face of goal. A bit soft, a bit wide, just a little bit of pie to chew upon at half time.

Half time: Peterborough 0 Grimsby Town 0

Yeah, that's it. That's the first half that was. Their goalkeeper touched the ball a couple of times, I think. Oh yes, how could I forget the time Rob Jones back-headed a huge punt upfield from Mildenhall. If their goalie had gone home early for his tea then it would have gone in. Reddy sometimes ran around, Jones the Lump was a fenland monster, his terrifying existence the stuff of rumour amongst villagers and travelling salesman. Croft seems to be having trouble adapting to the new Town, for short passes to David Gilbert just don't seem to be working these days. The midfield two were mostly capable of stopping too many surges forward from their counterparts, and the defence just about coped with the swirling fog of the Posh attack. It wasn't very edifying, it wasn't much but it was 0-0 when Peterborough should really have been two up. But hey, we shouldn't look these shoddy gift horses in the mouth, should we.

Who's gonna be the second half suckers?

Stu's Half Time Toilet Talk

"I can't think of anything - this game's stolen my brain."
"Is Rob Jones the only one who can tackle?"
"Shane Warne's been sent off at Oldham."
"Gary Jones moves like a gazelle. A dead gazelle."
"Well I believe Macca's shirt says GOD."

The report continues in the Second Half.

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