Trash talk

Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

17 March 2014

Grimsby Town 1 Hereford United 1

A still and springy evening with 22 bulls in a pen. Can you feel it? Can you feel it? Can you feel it? No, neither can I.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Bignot, Boyce, Pearson, Thomas, Rodman, Kerr, Thanoj, Disley, John-Lewis and Hannah. The five in a hole were Hatton, Neilson, McLaughlin, Jennings and Cook. Disley playing wideish left. No further questions, your honour.

Hereford. Beardy weirdy Frankie and his panting orange loons.

First half: Rhubarb and custard

Town kicked off with a hump. Too much cheese is bad for you. Town are fetid footballing feta. Nothing, nothing at all. Boyce: looks like Lever, slices into the Frozen Horse Stand like Lever, but plays like an Imp. Pearson wibbling again, under-hitting a non-back-pass which McKeown scurried and scuffled away.

Thanoj passed, but what's the point: no-one moved. If they did it was only the Shopping Trolley. What's the point? He shoots; the paying public is unmoved.

Hannah turned and gurned behind and through the tangerine dreamers. An Orangina helpfully removed John-Lewis before he could miss and Hannah wellied the penalty straight down the middle.

A Bull crumpled under a Disley crack. The ball dribbled to Jamie Mack and everyone ambled away. Boy, that's strong cider. The Orangeman stayed down clutching various legs and squealing. His mates whined, the referee dined with them, awarding a free kick because he was hurt. On the left, by the corner of the area Fabulous Frankie coiled into the centre and McDonald arose alone to glance weakly low and right of McKeown.

A shot or two, a cross or two, Thanoj involved in the only things that never happened. Why does John-Lewis get picked? Is Dizzer sulking or skulking? Rodman ran from pillock to post; at least he was trying.

Just rotten. Just Town as usual, post-Boxing Day.

Second half: The clangers

Neither team made any changes at half time.

All Town. Hereford did nothing but waste our time. The ref tapped his watch once, twice, thrice, and on and on. Thanoj wellied into the wall and wellied over, Thanoj volleyed over from five yards, Thanoj carefully steered into the waiting palms of the keeper. Thanoj can't shoot. Lennie the Lion bundled around causing minor mayhem. Lennie can't control the ball, let alone shoot.

On came the cellulite hero: Neilson replaced Dizzerpointing. Lovely hair. Jennings arrived without a suitcase. Hannah left after one final fling. Tripped by the last man and caressing a free kick from the right in exactly the same position that they scored from, the ball drifted past the keeper, over the ducking Pearson and bouncety-bouncing past the far post. Pffft, typical ducking Pearson.

Jennings fell over an invisible leg. Jennings crumpled under a severe stare. He doesn't dive, of course. The truth is out there in black and white.

Kerr crumpled a cross and Townites ducked to avoid the ball as it sauntered across the face of goal. Rodman laced daisies into the hair of the full-back, twisting left, right, left and right, bedraggling agin the foot of the near post.

On came Cook for the Three-Wheeled Shopping Trolley. Three minutes added. Boyce five yards out headed way, way over. Cook six yards out headed way, way, way over. We headed home as the season headed down the pan.

Two dispiritingly inane games in a row, victories avoided against phantom menaces. Negative? No, that's reality.