Be Patient, We're Building Nothing Here The Mariners were led by a local lad from near the Lud but it was same old, same old as Exeter exercised their right to party and helped Grimsby plummet into further danger.
Alarm bells are seriously ringing now. For ages, we’ve been saying ‘there are worse teams than us’ but after wins for the teams around us this weekend, it’s suddenly became panic stations. At least the Meggies midfield maestro Harry Clifton was finally given his long-overdue first league start for the club. It says it all that the likes of Dizza and Shaun Pearson congratulated him on social media- they are still a team of togetherness, long after Fenty’s plan to disassemble the most successful Mariners team in two decades has been completed. That team of 2016 would’ve run through brick walls for each other, the likes of Clarke and Berrett would barely run through puddles for each other. Anyway, we know what the problems are and we know that they need to be solved- and quickly. Wilkie chopped and changed his charges but it’s the same bloated, useless squad that are ‘trying’ every week. Maybe they did try but you can only get so far on gumption alone, you need talent and quality and we are severely lacking both. Question: What on Earth was Nathan Clarke doing tackling like he did, in the area, from behind? As captain of the football club he should lead by example, not fly into ridiculous rushes of blood and then look quizzically at the referee. It was 100% a penalty, Clarke, and how anyone could say you’re a improvement on Pearson is a bigger mystery than the Marie Celeste. Speaking of sinking ships and desertion, this club is one. You cannot expect to be competitive when your matchday squad includes JJ Hooper, Sam Kelly, Mitch Rose, James Berrett and Paul Dixon. Call me harsh, they’ve all had plenty of opportunities to show that they aren’t complete crock. Anyway, Stockley scored the penalty and we were losing again. Then we went up the other end and Harry Cardwell was brought down. Penalty to Town. The chance to get on par and, a rarity, score a goal. Hooper hopped up to hit a horrendous hobbler that was closer to the corner than the back of the net. The mirth of the travelling Exeter fans was palpable as they laughed at our misfortune. If you can call it that. He never, ever looked confident. We went into half-time behind and that’s the story of our season. We go behind and then never scrape together the mental wherewithal between the squad to get back into the match. It’s a repetitive tale that I’m not going to keep rattling on about. The second half saw us frantically running nowhere and rushing to pass it back to our ‘keeper-cum-playmaker, McKeown. What a tangled web we weave. The strikers looked like they'd met in the park that morning and were lumped up top together. Berrett has been efficiently useless and, in the absence of Summerfield, Clifton showed why he should've had a chance much, much earlier. To be a little more balanced towards the players, they did seem to try and play some passing football, the problem was that we didn’t do anything with it. Hooper spooning an effort well wide before being replaced by Jamille Matt. We all knew what was coming. The Pontoon purred with passion after a particularly vehement Mariner attempted to get the songs flowing and the fans glowing. He was a valiant soldier in the battle for atmosphere. We half-heartedly clapped and fished and Maaaaaaarinered…but then stopped again. You can’t be cheerful in choppy seas. There was no Matt finish to take the gloss away from a smash-and-grab away win for Exeter after Jamille very nearly jumped off his feet to reach a ball before heading it straight into Pym’s grateful arms. Chance gone. Match gone. Wilkinson gone? His name, like John-Lewis, might be a shop but it’s a cheap one, the place you buy your bog rolls and your toothpaste, not your manager or football players (listen up Fenty). Our league status has become perilous. Our next five games are cup finals. We need points. I’m not even arsed how we get them. A fluke. A flaky refereeing decision. It won’t do the heart any good but I’d take a backs-to-the-wall series of one nillers. Let’s rally the troops and hope and pray.
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Robbin' Robins "Be the change you want to see in the world" -Mahatma Gandhi
We scored a goal. Like an actual goal from an actual centre-forward. Simeon Jackson has done in ninety minutes what Scott Vernon has managed in twenty-odd matches this season. Just as an aside, the best goal I've ever seen by a Town player is still THAT Phil Jevons goal at Anfield. Feel free to comment what yours is. Audience participation and all that. First the context: A peaceful protest directed at sacking the board and the manager was undertaken by a few hundred Mariners. I had my vantage point in the middle of a group of lads, all holding banners with ‘Slade Out’ and ‘Fenty Out’. An enterprising Townite had only gone and printed off three-thousand sheets of A4 adorned with the aforementioned slogans. Or so the story went. Anyway, onto the game. We attacked from kick-off. I know! The sense of shock fizzed through Blundell Park like the shock of the lightning. Summerfield screwed in a scuttle and Simeon smashed it home after some suspect goalkeeping by Cheltenham’s stopper. 1-0. Ain’t no stopping us now. The ironic chants of ‘we’ve fucking scored’ lighting up the overcast Cleethorpes afternoon. A bit of atmosphere was back. It has been a while. We created chances. Again, the creativity-starved supporters did a double-take in unison. The loudest voice I’ve ever heard screeched ‘Slaaaaaaade Outttttttt’ in a gravelly tone reminiscent of Moe the Bartender from The Simpsons, but if he smoked sixty lamberts a day. Songs were sung again. The Pontoon pondered as half the souls inside it stood up in the fourteenth minute- carrying on the anti-Fenty protest. The upper chimed in with a chorus of ‘you’re killing our club’. It may not have been pretty but the Cleethorpian choir had re-found its voice after many months of voluntary laryngitis. The half-time whistle blew, the referee the subject to jeers and jokes after a particularly dodgy performance. The final forty-five. The final countdown? I know you’ve just done the tune, possibly a bit of unashamed air guitar as well. The ref fell over Berrett’s backside. Cheers and laughter from all four sides of the ground as the man in pink embarrassed himself further. There’s nowhere to hide when, wearing a magenta kit, you trip up and fall flat on your face in front of 3000 people, mate. More sporadic shouts of Slade Out from various sections. More of the town sitting back, soaking up the non-existent pressure from Cheltenham. You must have be to 6 foot tall to play for the Robins as most of their eleven men were proper units. We could all sense what was coming. A treble change from Gary Johnson saw Cheltenham hit with a carafe of confidence. What’s that coming over the hill, is it a monster? No, its Harry Pell. Mr Popular himself kept finding space and finding his team-mates as the Robins rocked towards the Osmond. Goal. 1-1. The defence like a trawler- all at sea- as Johnson’s jolly giants grabbed an equaliser that was as predictable as someone being kicked out of 0 North for doing ketamine. The Fenty Out calls began again, louder this time. Aimed fiercely at the board and not the players, it must be said. Matt had a chance to grab all three points but saw his name in the headlines and skied a skimmer straight into the midriff of the Ponny. Oh, Jamille. A big chance gone begging against a bunch of big lads. We remain seventeenth, we remain winless in eleven now. We remain mired in a battle between Fenty’s death star and the Mariners rebel alliance. The debate over who could come in and run the club will go on and on and on. For now, a game of missed chances. Two points dropped rather than one gained? COME ON FEEL THE LACK OF NOISE Let’s start at the beginning. The beginning of the end of Grimsby Town FC. I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I’m miserable now. Another defeat, another blank scoresheet and another set of bullshit excuses from the ‘manager’.
It’s not good enough. I find myself writing the same thing every home match, we tried, we failed, we booed, we went home pointless, goalless and hopeless. It’s become a chore to visit Blundell Park this season. An angry congregation of verbal abuse aimed at Fenty and Slade mixed with that uniquely slanted estuarial wind and rain. We actually didn’t play too badly in the first half. Luton, the visitors, had one of theirs sent off for two atrocious challenges and the league leaders were having a little bit of an off-day. It would’ve been nice to at least try and take advantage. James Berrett, still stealing a living as a midfield player, ran around like a kid on a playground, excited to be there but knowing, in his heart of hearts, that he’s just not that good. But the ‘management’ team persists. A shot on target in the first half! I know. The Pontoon almost came to life after that one. Vernam was lively, unfortunately, he was lively in going absolutely nowhere. The 5-3-2 formation was holding shape and keeping the Hatters at bay. We could be quietly satisfied with a goalless first-half. Southern voices spiked the insipid atmosphere and we genuinely had forgotten that they were there. In the same way that most of the Town players seemed to forget they were involved in a football match. A free-kick was stupidly given away, struck well and was acrobatically saved by young Ben Killip in nets. However, his good work was undone as Clarke and Collins watched the ball roll along the six-yard box and into the grateful stride of James Collins, the Lutonian battering ram blasting it into the unguarded net. 1-0 and many of us were resigned to our fate, now. Slade’s side had skweezed but not pleezed and mama we’re all crazy now that Fenty still backs this prehistoric tactician of a ‘manager’. From then on we decided to play silly buggers. We passed around the team nicely, going sideways, longways, tallways, always- never quite able to pull the decisive daisycutter and distract Luton enough to probe towards goal. Berrett and Osborne went sideways. Mills and Dixon went sideways. Summerfield picked it up in the middle and then decided he too was gonna follow the lead of his team-mates and frighten Luton Town with a pass that went deliciously nowhere. Slade’s Nowhere Boys continued in this vein. Even the introduction of diddy Dembele did little to change the result. Instead he flicked and tricked his way into the ref’s book after tripping over his own hairstyle. The new lad, Mallik Wilks, was brought on and ran into the channels of nowhere. A recurring theme. The worst part is, Slade will be here until at least the end of the season. Fenty considerably longer. Osborne had a header that clipped the top of the bar and dropped agonizingly the wrong side of the goalframe before the final whistle blew on another scoreless performance. Everyday, when I’m away, I miss you, you know. Its not getting any better, Mariners. I imagine Slade and Fenty are sipping prosecco in McMenemey’s toasting their bank balances while saying: “Its coz I luv u”. Well, we fucking don’t. John Fenty is a wanker. Sue me. I’ll see you next weekend, if I haven’t completely lost the will to make the effort. Make some noise for the boys? More like sit and get cold watching the excitement unfold. Empty seats, empty promises and full-on anger as Grimsby Town slipped to another defeat. We deserved to lose. There is no leadership, no firebrand tenacity, no hopes or dreams. Slade and Fenty sitting in a tree, M-I-S-S-I-N-G the point completely.
Berrett was back and Berretting around like a rabbit caught in the headlights, the headlights of cars travelling as far away from Blundell Park as possible. The attendance, laughably, was said to be slightly higher than last weeks. I’m not sure who counts but maybe they had double vision. This is protest. Some town fans won’t be back until Slade and Fenty, or a combination of the two, is gone for good. Not that they missed much. Oooo, a goal. The first time we’ve seen a legitimate piece of finishing from a Mariners footballer since god knows when ago. All the games are merging into one at the minute. An endless, joyless muddle of muck and misery. Newport, with former Mariner Padraig Amond up top, initially didn’t cause many problems and we actually had a shot on goal within the first ten minutes! Spooky, I know. We were a slightly better rabble of rubbish. Step forward Jake Kean. Our new loanee ‘keeper must have a phobia of footballs because he consistently jumps out the way of them. Beaten at his near-post by a low drive that had no right to ripple the net. 1-0 down and how? The catcalls and the boos grew louder. The Slade Out choir in full voice. Fenty no doubt looking on, shielded by his tremendous ego. The selfish bastard. Vernon! Vernon? Did I just see Scotty V have a maybe, almost attempt at goal? I must be seeing things. The new boy Vernam looked to run at the opposition, something we rarely get to see in Slenty Land. He seemed up for it, until we went a goal down and the team collectively let their heads drop. Confidence severely lacking in the Grimsby camp. More jeers at half-time. The opening forty-five dissected angrily by the other fans in the bar queue. In between dripping mouthfuls of lager came the vitriol directed towards Osborne, Kean, Slade and Fenty. The jawsome foursome being talked about in less-than-complimentary comment. Rightly so, to be honest. Back out for the second forty-five. My toes were getting cold, they were almost as frozen as the Mariners defence as Newport made it 2. The ‘keeper being beaten after some clumsy defensive dithering from Karleigh Osborne. The Vernon/Vernam confusion up top was cleared up when Vernone (as in “How many goals will Vernon score today, dad? I’m gonna say none.”) and on came Jamille Matt. His story in this game is a saga. He scored a goal (I know, believe it, really did happen) when he charged onto a flukey pass to flick the ball flukily past the Newport custodian. They all count. They ALL count. Bizarrely, things took a turn for Matt. He confronted a Town fan who had idiotically squirted a drink at the opposition ‘keeper by telling him to politely refrain from one’s actions. Then he was sent-off for an entirely unrelated incident. I was looking right at it and still don’t know what the referee saw. Or didn’t. It doesn’t matter. He was off and the game, long gone, was to have eight minutes of stoppage time. Just blow now, ref, put us out of our misery. 2-1 the final score. Slade out. Fenty out. Put the bins out. Close the door on your way out, Russ and for goodness sake please take half this squad with you. See you against Luton. If we haven’t all got fed up of it by then. Goalless and soulless, what has happened to Grimsby Town? A wall of sound engulfed Blundell Park, chilly in the January bite, vicious in the anti-Slenty rhetoric. Justifiably so.
Starting at the very beginning, the red shirts of Morecambe made their way from far West, the seaside we don’t speak of. 55 hardy Morecambians managed to make some noise over the disapproving grunts, despairing groans and sarcastic comment of the ever-depressed faithful. It was like an old music hall comedy routine in the Pontoon. Town dripped forward, putting as much effort into shooting at goal as Jeremy Hunt does at being Health Minister. I bet he knows Fenty, all the Tory toffs are in this together. With the exception of Dembele and Summerfield, we looked Sunday League at best- again. The new ‘keeper beaten by a looping leather over his head as Morecambe took the lead. Kevin Ellison, enjoying matey banter with the lower, scoring. Let’s start again. Come on, town. Intensity. No. Slade doesn’t set us up like that. Fans were getting restless, shouts were getting louder, no shots at goal and the Bovril was barrelling down the Pontoon steps. A defensive mix-up saw Morecambe player Steven Old score after Jake didn’t seem too Kean to keep hold of the ball. The new keeper dropping a clanger and handing a two-goal cushion to the reds. Old once helped New Zealand qualify for a World Cup and now spends his time being the Kiwi in the League Two fruit bowl, staying ripe and ready long after the bananas at Blundell Park have perished. 2-0 down at half-time. Boos rained down on the manager and the non-chairman. The game was played at breakneck speed. By breakneck- I mean you broke your neck watching where the teams hoofed the ball up into. We began the second half streaming forward. Yes, I know. Shock, suspense and satisfaction from the humbugs at home. Oh, the excitement. I need to sit down. We never, ever looked like scoring a goal. Where was the Dembele dip? Where was the Mills whip? Where was Captain Clarke steadying the rapidly-sinking ship? The answer has floated down the Humber on driftwood, hopefully with Sam Kelly attached to the other end of it. Chance? No. False alarm. Jones was hauled off after huffing for too long. Woolford seemed to forget he was even playing, it must have been a mild shock when he won the ball in the opposition half, only to mis-control and hand the advantage back to Morecambe. Ah well, he’s turned up and paid his subs, why not give him some game time… More boos. More jeers. More insulting football from the nowhere boys. Slade Out was the cry as fans tripped over themselves trying to prise open the big gate to leave. The attendance, ever-dwindling, makes more of a statement than just posting negative comments on social media. Fenty has a big ego, it takes a lot to make him feel sympathy for people. He is a Tory after all, a blue-blooded bastard with his own interests at heart. Getting rid of him will be difficult. He’ll fight us all the way. Look at how many times someone tried to dispose of Cameron or May from No. 10? Tories are seemingly made out of titanium and their own self-worth and opinion makes them almost immune to any character assassinations. I’ll be glad to see the back of him. I just wonder who can put the money in. See you on Saturday? The way things are going, there might be just me, the press and the Famous Five trying to keep warm in the bluster of Blundell Park. I’m not sure where to start really. I wish all you Mariners a happy new year and hope that the team can perform a million times better against Crewe.
Stretching out a match report on the dross that we were served up is gonna be a challenge. Two shots on target, a complete lack of cutting edge and seeing Accrington slice through us like a hot knife through butter. It was no classic end-of-year cracker. I can only describe this game as that strange feeling you have on the 27th of December. The festivities are dampened and you’re slowly working all the turkey and lager out your body. Grimsby Town played like they were weighed down heavily by excess gravy. That’s not to say that they didn’t at least try. It was the way they were set up that already had us up against it. Player of the season so far, Luke Summerfield, once again tried to make things happen while Dembele and DJ dibbed and dabbed, running and flicking their way along the Road to Nowhere. The talking heads in the stands were not happy. Accrington were better than us, that’s clear. I didn’t realise just how big the gulf in class was until their third goal went in. Looking at the league table, you’d think they played out of their skin to get three goals away from home. In all seriousness, the Town team made Stanley look sharper than the craft knife of the same name. With an atmosphere like a burst beachball on Meggies beach, there was nothing to shout about. Mitch Rose miscontrolled. Zak Mills went missing and Sam Jones looked so disinterested. A bad day at the office all-round. The Slade Out brigade booed and boomed as anger was directed at Fenty and his apparent lack of ambition, direction or brain cells. Not a good way to end a fairly average calendar year. 2017 began with us knocking seven bells out of Carlisle, becoming the first team to beat them on their own patch. It ends with pessimism rising, fans staying away and a general state of malaise amongst the Mariners. Cheer up. It could be worse. We could be Sunderland fans. Let’s hope for a change in the air in 2018. The inevitable capitulation of Lincoln City when their plastic fans realise that there’s no trip to Arsenal this season; Slade making moves in the market as he snaps up a desperately-needed goalscorer and someone who can actually play a pass instead of hoof and hope (yes, I’m looking at you Nathan Clarke). Up The Mariners. Have a safe trip to sunny Cheshire on Monday, those that are going. I used to live in Crewe, you know. Meadow Lane is in my ears and in my eyes. There, beneath the darkening suburban sky was the Oldest Football League Club in the World. The marauding Mariners travelled headstrong into Nottingham on the back of a three-match winning streak.
The magpies were on top of the league, its one for sorrow and two for joy but what is it for eleven of the chirping things? I’m sure someone at Cod Almighty will know. We knew the task was going to be tough. Playing the joint leaders away from home on consecutive weekends but Town started well. The real black and white army (in blue) swamped forwards playing some nice attacking football. Dembele and Matt linked up well, but the latter was thwarted by the County custodian. Town were the better side, they had the hosts tied up in Notts, twisting and turning with the wingers winging and the full-backs giving full-backing to the attack. The atmosphere was rowdy, raucous and rambunctious. The greatest hits were being trotted out at full tilt, the newer Siriki Dembele song escaping into the Nottingham air. Summerfield had a try tipped over the top, the chances were coming. The referee decided he was gonna give a free-kick for every little niggling knock and tenuous ‘foul’. He began to ruin the first-half as a spectacle. County got back into it slowly. They moved at a sloth’s pace, crawling across the pitch, dribbling a string of passes that could not get past the granite-like rearguard of Clarke and Collins. Half-time, 0-0. Good result in the circumstances. The second half was a much slower affair. Again, the ref wanted to do his bet for their promotion effort by consistently punishing Summerfield and Rose for any robust challenge. The standard of officiating at this level is barely better than the non-league days. I heard the angriest Mariner ever screaming a string of expletives behind me. He said something along the lines of telling the linesman to ‘go away and never come back, please and thanks’ before ending his tirade with ‘do everyone a favour and stop breathing’. A bit harsh. It kinda added to the pure madness of the day, though. A nil-nil draw is a decent result. County have had a great start to the season, but I can’t help but think that they were there for the taking. The journey home was pure carnage. Transport police ushered a load of us on the train at Lincoln after hearing one too many verses of ‘Ten Lincoln Bombers’. The train company put on a football special, like it was the 70s all over again, but I don’t know a single person who got on it. I reached Notts station and was basically just herded onto the first train going remotely in the right direction home. That’s right, treat us like animals. Okay, there were a few idiots who trashed a train and caused some damage. So, of course the rest of us have to be made to look like hooligan cattle. Insert sarcastic smiley. Anyway, I was satisfied with a point. It takes us into the game at Luton still in a decent position. To use a nice joke from a Carry On film: ‘Up the Mariners.’ “Yes. And up yours!” What happens when Dale Vince gets bored of his pet project and decides, Rushden & Diamonds style, to walk away leaving behind a legacy of not much more than mushroom risotto? Forest Green Rovers, as a team, played what I like to call anti-football.
They wasted time from the outset. They attempted to kick Dembele and DJ off the pitch and, thankfully, were made to pay for their prehistoric tactics with a defeat. I’m not normally the sort of person to indulge in elitist footballing ‘mind the gap’ rhetoric but Forest Green are deserving of their position at the foot of the league. You can’t come to places like Cleethorpes and play like a Sunday league team. The first-half we were good. We attacked and ran and tried to make things happen. A bit of bad luck and a bit of a lack of cutting edge. Dembele dibbled and dabbed between dozy defenders. Matt harassed and harangued, causing a nuisance to the Nailsworth ne’er do wells. A lot of time-wasting went on, especially from the fluorescent custodian in goal as he took his time to distribute the ball to his defence. It was only a matter of time before the onrushing Matt and Jones closed it down and got a flukey deflection for a goal. PENO. Mate, I never saw much of it. That pesky pole was in my eyeline as usual and all I heard was a whistle, a cheer and a red card out Boyeson’s pocket. A bit of gamesmanship from them again. Suddenly their left-back decides he’s been shot and falls theatrically to the ground, to the wrath of the home faithful. He’s hoodwinked the ref, he has sir. Jones stepped up, eventually, and scuffed a scrabbler straight into the chest of Mr Time Waster before Mitch Rose reacted quickest to bag a black and white goal. We deserved the lead. A triumph over non-football. The rebel alliance teaching a lesson to the Vegan Empire. The half-time whistle blew after much huffing, puffing and nut loaf stuffing. What happened next is a mystery worthy of Marple. Sam Jones came out for round two looking disinterested and the biting cold, swirling wind began to take its toll on the players as the Mariners sat back. We were absorbing the so-called pressure and inviting the attacking force of the opposition. By that, I mean they barely registered a shot on goal let alone on target. Jones headed against the post, his quiff quibbling onto Summerfield’s free-kick. So close. Aaaargh I jumped up too quick and got scalding hot Bovril all over my jeans. The vegans ventured forward, never really looking too threatening. You never know with Grimsby Town though, one minute they can tear through teams like a carnivorous animal and the next minute they struggle to silence a symphony of quornography. The gloves were out, so were the scarves and the lovely Mariner themed Christmas jumpers as the frigid midwinter air pinched the cheeks and fingers of the supporters. Would you take 1-0 and a relatively dire performance? Yes. Thought so. Three wins on the spin and we lie just outside the play-offs on goal difference. We now go into two very tough away fixtures against the top two in the division. Nottingham and Luton await the marauding mob. Things are looking more delightful, though the weather outside is frightful. This Is How It FeelsThere’s something romantic about Blundell Park under floodlights.
We were a team on edge, needing a goal, a performance, a hope. Swindon, the visitors, boasted the best away record in the entire Football League and Grimsby Town had gone 361 minutes without a goal in drizzly Meggies. How records tumble. Jamille Matt pounced on pathetic dithering Swindonian defenders to bag beyond Charles-Cook in goal. We’ve only gone and found the back of the net, man. Ain’t no stopping us now. To be fair to their ‘keeper, he was a one-man brick wall, repelling the onslaught early on. So, to our incredible bad luck and surprise, we went into half-time 2-1 behind after a quality goal and one that megged Macca after Matt met it and scored an own goal. The groans of Grimbarians gobbed out into the filthy evening. As we faced the sun, we cast no shadow. For the second half, the Mariners revved up the gears. They huffed and puffed, Dembele doing what he does best and Jaiyiesimi jinking and jelly-legging beyond stiff Swindon pegs. Jones had a chance just wide. DJ shot and landed the ball perfectly in McDonalds car park. Slade’s team were not just here to hoof it and hope. Which made a pleasant change. Oh great, we got another diabolical referee. The man in the middle gave everything. The green chequered shirts of Swindon are best left back in deepest Wiltshire as they began to blend in with the emerald turf. A scuffed effort saw the ball gratefully land in the gloves of McKeown, confidence stuttering from his first-half humbling. Rose battled and Summerfield challenged. We looked a team. DJ shimmied and spun the decks, laying on a perfect cue for Dembele to smash past Charles-Cook, the impressive wingers were wicked as the Robins flew away from their tricky feet. This town knows. Grimsby had that loveliest of M words- momentum. Collins threw himself at the ball, Macca made a save, we were having a right royal rumble. It’s the first time this season that I’ve seen Town playing some nice, neat football. More of the same, please? Mitch Rose, a man who kept doing silly fouls and losing the ball was the subject of more stick than a dog in a park. The men behind me were cursing his play, saying how Jamey Osborne is a much better option and that even, believe it or not, James Berrett would be much more influential. Dembele found Davies, Davies laid a centre onto a plate for the overlapping Ozzy who flicked the switch for Mitch to send shockwaves through Swindon. A stirring and dazzling comeback, under the seaside skies. We wandered lonely as a cloud, claiming nil-nils rarely found. Now we were back. The angle of post and bar and the reactions of Jimmy Mac saved us from letting Swindon get a point, which would have been undeserved. We were thoroughly deserving of all three. Let’s have some more of it. Halloween weekend and the biggest horror show available was Grimsby Town v Cambridge United. A drab game of turgid hoofball and zero intensity was witnessed by the 4000 plus bored souls at Blundell Park. Why are we so direct and boring, eh, Russ? Where did the money from the sale of Bogle go? It certainly didn’t go on signing a replacement centre-forward because Vernon, Hooper, Matt and Cardwell have about 3 goals between them.
I’d like to be able to tell you about some good football. There wasn’t any. From either side. The town midfield, slow and laboured locked horns with the Cambridge engine room, creating a drawn-out and soporific ninety minutes in the biting chill of late October. Berrett and Summerfield plonked themselves in the middle like a couple of pumpkins, spraying sideways passes to the extremely ineffective Woolford and Dixon. Siriki Dembele tried and toiled against the boil and bubble of Cambridge’s sky-high tactics. They whacked it towards their battering ram of a strikeforce, Ibehre or Ikpeazu, at every opportunity. Not a good advert for league two. Jones jinked and jangled through the U’s defence only to be foiled by the flying Forde who focused on frustration rather than a Fiesta. With Bonfire Night on the horizon, sadly there were no fireworks in this one. At half-time we were praying for a fizzling piledriver from Summerfield, a sparkling rocket from Jones or even just an end to the ceaseless mundanity unfolding in front of us. Even the flash mob singing ‘I Am What I Am’ could barely lift the spirits of either the home faithful or the travelling two-hundred souls from dahn sarf. What a way to spend my 24th birthday, eh? Watching a group of apparent strangers failing to string together any sort of attack on goal for an hour and a half. Seriously, these two could’ve played each other all week and we’d still not see a goal. Three goalless draws in four matches is a real damning statistic on Slade’s tactics. We have scored seven times in Cleethorpes this season, a paltry return for a side that has historically strived to play pretty, attacking football. The patterns and triangles of the play-on-the-floor Buckley era really is ancient history. Slade made a baffling decision to take off our only semblance of a goal threat when Sam Jones was swapped for JJ Hooper. I’m not the sort of person who criticises players so soon into their Mariners careers but Hooper looks like he couldn’t hit a barn door with a GPMG. Hopefully, with the FA Cup causing a nice distraction from our wretched home performances that Plymouth do what they did last season and let us roll them over in Devon. To those making the trip, have a good’un. I bet it’s a nil-nil stalemate. |
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