Pulp Football: Torquay Report

Grimsby Town 3 Torquay United 0
17 Sep 2005, Coca Cola League 2

No, not purple seats with pink drapes wrapped around the Main Stand, but a little scaffolding around the memorial Menno Willems strip light in the Pontoon.

Town lined up in the accidental 4:4:1:1 formation, as shown. Parkinsonless, due to his tongue twisting shin splint setback, but stuffed full of Barwickness. Tap him, unwrap him, 20 golden segments of, oh no, that's Terry's Chocolate Orange isn't it. Why did everyone get a chocolate orange in their Christmas stocking during the 1970s, was it a clause in the Sale of Goods Act? Yes, Terry Barwick, that's him, the Scunny scapegoat, out there, on the right wing. Oooh, shades of Stacy Coldicott there; good luck old chap. You're sharp, aren't you. Already worked out that Cohen was on the left wing, nothing gets past you. You are the Macca of match reporting: able to see a line ahead.

Is there anybody left who pronounces Barwick as Ba-rrick? Surely not.

Torquay wandered out in a pleasing yellow ensemble, no colour clashes, just good old fashioned yellow with blue bits. Lovely. The early birds were fortunate enough to see their warm up routine, concentric-eccentric ball juggling circles: inside clockwise, outside anti-clockwise, all set to music, of course. The Mat Busby Berkley babes in Toyland. Town did the usual cone hopping; so last year.

Dish of the Day: Tom Newey's steak, chips and baked beans. No wonder he's a substitute. Dear me, beans with steak just will not do. But at least "Northern fat chips" are recommended for his diet. And here's the top tip of the day - the bugs are on the outside.

OK, it's time. Let's get into character.

1st half

Town kicked off towards the Osmond Stand, Croft lamping the ball down the left. About five minutes later a Town player managed to control the ball. In between we were entertained by Justin Whittle's Alf Ippitimus impression, twice missing headers and running around in circles in comedic "Wahey! Where am I?" fashion. Torquay squawked around in front of the Pontoon, nipping as Town napped, nibbling upon our ankles; irritating, then alarming with their persistence.

They were passing the ball, we couldn't get it. Is every home game the same? Town looked a bit of a shambles, perhaps it's a cunning plan to lull those Tottingham Hotspurs scouts into a belief we're just a set piece team? Twice in the first couple of minutes Sir McDermott of Johnness rescued Whittle from ignominy with, well, you know, you can see it, can't you. Defending without tackling, the ball eased away from danger by use of his legendary status.

The crowd already silenced.

Ah, five minutes, a Town attack, or more accurately the ball is down the other end and has dribbled off a yellow sock for a corner. Jones the Stick, lurking underneath the flight path, bumped away with a Torquay hip to his backside. Free kick to them, obviously.

A big red tanker slipped by, or was that Tony Crane warming up? With your long blonde hair and your eyes of blue the only thing we ever got from you was sorrow. Whoops, wrong Tony Crane again. I must be reelinandarockin from the excitement.