The Grimsby Town FC


Question of the Week

What is more important, result or style of football?

Style of Football

Paper Tiger
Paper Tiger

20/09 Tottenham Part 2

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 24/09/2005

ROBBIE Keane is a paper tiger which Spurs use to scare people, it looks terrifying but in fact is terrible.

Home > 2005-2006 Season > Reports > Tottenham (h)

Grimsby Town 1 Tottenham Hotspurs 0
20 Sep 2005, Carling Cup

This is nice, watching opponents content themselves with possession, pac-manning across the park. This is nicer, them passing the ball out of play. This premiership stuff is like the fourth division: it just takes them a bit longer to give us a throw in, and with a bit more jewellery. Reddy racing, Naybet gnawing, King kerrang!ing the ball out for a corner. In, out, Parky slipping the ball in to the near post, Jones the Lump noodling, Robinson parrying, linesman flagging, crowd OOOOOOOOing. Ping! Game on.

Hustling, harrying, Town growing with possession kept, passes being made. The concrete and clay beneath Spurs feet beginning to crumble; these are hollow men, their passes falling into shadows. Hold that breath! And....relax. Defoe free behind the defence, McDermott placing his legendary status between the young pretender and the ball. Offside anyway, but why let this masterclass of Maccaness pass without eulogy? Still Town probed, pushing at this creaking gate: are there any British bulldogs in the garden? Oh yes, Bolland snap, crackled and popped a shot into the comfortably numb Spurs-ites at the back of the Osmond. They don't like it up 'em, cried the Corporals Jones.

Gulp. Is this it? Jenas dribbling, flicks, tricks and Reid tickled behind the centre backs, shoving His Maccaness aside. Reid poked, Vampiro Mildo raised his wings high and swooped down upon this little dormouse, plucking him from the ground and taking this morsel back to the nest for a light tea. A light tea, something Reid is clearly unfamiliar with. At some point Keane headed the ball inside the Town penalty area and it bounded towards the goal with an impish gait. It's alright, it missed; no need to call the paramedics.

Ah, Town are on the move, scraping, scrapping, slapping the aristocrats with an inflatable rainbow trout. Pounding down the right, Spurs spiked, the ball flighted to the far post where Jones the Lump used his high-fibre breakfast to noodle in front of Naybet and nod back across the face of goal. Reddy lurked, King emerged from the murk to muddle clear. The crowd rising, the roof riding the sonic boom from the Pontoon. Cohen and Sparky Parky troubled the full-backs with persistent probing. Crosses piling in and Jones the Lump charged into the six yard box from a Reddy flick. King slid, Jones slod, the referee wiggled like a snake and waddled like a duck, well that's what you do when you do the hucklebuck. No penalty. We didn't ask. Cohen surging past one, two, three four, can I have a little more? Parkinson winning tackles, muscling opponents away. I repeat: Parkinson winning tackles, muscling opponents away. You read that right. Smelling salts anyone?

Ah that's nice for them. They've come all this way and haven't had the chance to say hello. The Tottinghams tootled forward, turned up the amp to 11 and Keane was flickered free down their right. The Town defence splayed like a dissected frog, the cross flew into the near post, six yards out. Defoe sprang and glanced a free header a couple of feet wide of Mildenhall's right-hand post. Vorsprung Deficient Technic. We laughed, then remembered he's England's back-up striker. Then we laughed again, like we did last summer. Are you interested in Jermaine Jenas? No, no-one should be. The greedy wastrel dribbled past half the Town team, ignored unmarked team mates and looked aghast that he wasn't allowed to Harlem Globetrot. Whittle superbly venus flytrapped him. They didn't come back to the Pontoon again, too embarrassed I think. They were no match for our untamed wit.

Steve Mildenhall
John McDermott
Justin Whittle
Rob Jones
Gary Croft
Gary Cohen
Jean-Paul Kamudimbagoal
Paul Bolland
Andy Parkinson
Gary Jones
Michael Reddy


Martin Gritton45 mins
Terry Barwick83 mins
Simon Ramsden
Ciaran Toner67 mins
Tom Newey


Graham Laws
(Whitley Bay)


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As the half skipped gaily towards half time Town tightened the tourniquet. Spurs were slowing, mowing their own lawn in increasingly erratic patterns. More passes were tippled out of play, heads dropping, arguments flowing. Keane was at Cleethorpes station already, making his funny gesticulations. The ball was played near where he wanted inside the Town area, but not to the exact spot. He gave up. Parkinson was more than a pest, a threat, suddenly vibrant. Cutting infield on the edge of the penalty area, rolling past his marker and drifting a shot across Robinson, who was uncomfortable with the silence. England, England's number one (well better than David James) parried aside with the finesse of puppy on rollerskates. Ooooh. More Town pressure, more free kicks, more chances for the Panzer division to roll forward. Rickety, ropey, Robinson doing the hokey-cokey: advancing to the edge the area and flapping at the Kalalalalalalala bear. Shoot! He didn't; the moment was lost, but belief was stirring. Macca raiding, Cohen va-va-vooming, crosses from the left, crosses from the right. Town banging on door and the butler peered timidly through the spyhole. Parkinson again, spinning, winning and grinning as he flabbled a shot at Robinson.

Apparently Michael Carrick was playing. Did anyone tell him?

Half time: Grimsby Town 0 Tottenham Hotspurs 0

Is it half time already? Oh yes. Premiership demystification: a standing ovation, Town fans proudly beating out a rhythm. But Spurs can't be as disinterested, disjointed and plain dim again, can they? Town's defence was having a stormer: Whittle and Jones l'arc de triomphe framing Mildenhall, Keane and Defoe had to run a long way round. Plus they took heed of the keep off the grass signs. Macca had his winger on toast, with a little bit of brown sauce, just to spice things up. Croft was generally coping. Kamudimba and Bolland, in particular, were a solid wedge of wonderfulness, flanked by the tireless twosome. They were clearly frightened of Reddy's pace and Jones the Lump occupied their thoughts on a regular basis. That's us, who cares about them?

We're normally forty five minutes from Doncaster, it could be forty five minutes from dreamland. No, that's not the same thing.

Stu's Half Time Toilet Talk

"The ball moved - is Uri Geller flying overhead?"
"Have I ever told you about Horace the cheeseboard?"
"I wouldn't have put Defoe in my fantasy team if I'd seen him play."
"He couldn't take the call because he was reading the Magna Carta."
"Whittle's on fire! Well, not literally"

The report continues in the Second Half.

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