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Grimsby Town 0 Darlington 1
20 Aug 2005, Coca Cola League 2
Cleethorpes, the home of the free header on goal, on a sunny afternoon, with around 300 Darlingtonians munching their Maltesers in the Osmond Stand. The conspiracy theorists were about - where's JPK? Has he been shot on the way here by a lone gunmen hiding in the classical music section of Cleethorpes Library? Has he seen the light already? Or is he just not fit enough yet?
Town lined up in the 3:4:(nebulous cloud of gas):2 formation, as shown. How exciting: three full backs in midfield and Parkinson still in limbo between midfield and "attack". The Barwickless bench whipped away an early moan opportunity for the Pontoon purple-istas.
At least we have another returning favourite - first Gary Croft, now Players Portions comes back with Mildenhall's Irish Stew. Officially there is no recipe, just make it up as you go along. Is that a metaphor? No, it's a meat-aphor, says the seven stone Mr Pun. No-one laughed, and no-one cried, there were too many spaces in the lines of seating.
Darlington turned up in the old Arsenal tops with red shorts. They melted beautifully into the acres of empty seating in the Main and Lower Smiths/Stones/Findus stands. As last season, they brought along some great names: the apprentice jockey, Mr Jonjo Dickman, and Shelton Mathis, a quaint hamlet of seven thatched cottages in Oxfordshire, a favourite haunt of neo-romantic poets and painters. The tannoy announcer choked whilst trying to pronounce Guylain Ndumbu-Nsungu; fortunately the cashew nut was ejected from his throat by use of the Heimlich manoeuvre, live on air. Or maybe it was a tackle from Tony Crane, they sound and look the same to me. And in central midfield they had used the latest Japanese technology to create the world's first footballer who can only be seen using an electron-microscope: pint-sized Peacock, the tiny tot terrier. Oh how we chuckled.
1st half
The game was delayed by a beachball rolling gently onto the pitch behind Mildenhall. His attempts to kick it away just kept boomeranging back. A steward ambled from the Main Stand, stood, shook his head and went back to the safety of his hut. Too risky.
Town kicked off towards the Osmond, trundling the ball back to Newey, who looked up and smashed the it downfield straight to the bananaboy in Darlington's goal.
I started to read the programme. Five minutes later I had finished, but the game hadn't, sadly. Nothing had happened in those 300 seconds. The sound of the suburbs was audible in the background, you could just about hear macaroni being boiled in a bungalow in Brigsley. I felt that they'd skimped on the cheese, but that's just a matter of personal taste, isn't it.
Oh look, a shot. Dickman advancing down the middle, the Town defence retreating, and a dribbling driveller dimpled along and wide of the right hand post. They'd passed it a bit hadn't they? That's no way to end up 18th. Fancy notions, where will that get 'em, eh? Good honest toil, no frills. Ploughing requires a sturdy horse and a straight line.
I'm slightly perturbed by Kamudimba's hair. That's what our cat's fur looks like when he hasn't been grooming himself. C'mon Jean-Paul, lick yourself a bit more, or use a comb. It was never like this in Alan Buckley's day, was it?
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Carl Boyeson