Splash and Grab: Brentford Report

Brentford 1 Grimsby Town 3
22 Nov 2003, Nationwide League Division 2

To the consternation of the men in shiny anoraks some chose to go back the 80s, the living, breathing, sodden past, standing on an open terrace. Which would crumble first - the terrace or the Town? So around 60 die-hards stood in the rain, and another 100 or so dentists and opticians huggled together on a corner of some foreign field that shall be forever dry. The pre-match entertainment was lost in a haze of rain and late arrivals from warm pubs, but seemed to consist of the mascot getting heavier and heavier as it soaked up water quicker than the pitch.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation, as shown. Everyone played where you’d now expect them to, no surprise tactical switches this time. Brentford looked to have many tall players, but on close inspection they all seemed to be about 15 years old, apart from Rougier and Noadesenstein’s monster in midfield, Hutchinson. A gratuitous insult? No sir, for we now know why Coldicott and Pouton have not been seen since the summer. Sold to Ron Noades, Stacy’s head was grafted onto Pouton’s body to construct the perfect midfield machine You had to admire it, for it’s purity was only matched by it’s aggression. As the teams lined up Rougier waddled down the touchline and inspected the puddles that lay down in the corner near the Town fans. Barnard followed, peered at the ground and they clearly came to the same conclusion. It was wet.

Anderson eschewed his white boots, or perhaps they were just caked in mud.

1st half

Town, in the away kit laughingly labelled silver, or perhaps labelled laughingly, kicked off towards the Brentford supporters, all la-di-dah happy undercover. The local teenagers showed their inexperience by heading the ball out of play for a throw in. Just let it go man, it’s da rules. In the first couple of minutes the ball was away in the distance, mostly at the feet of Town players. Nothing of any consequence to report, then Brentford launched it forward, chased, harried, hassled and forced a corner. Vigorous chasings with attacks causing minor peril. In about the third minute a corner from their left was fizzed in low towards the corner of the 6 yards box. Hutchinson, their effervescent Pouticott, raced in and glanced a header goalwards. Davison, in the middle of his goal, parried the ball away from his face and back out, fortunately, to a Town player.

A minute later there was a long, long delay as Anderson received treatment following a reckless sliding, dumping challenge on the left touchline which made our tubby terror slide headfirst into the advertising boards with a mighty thump. There wasn’t an Anderson sized hole in the board, so the referee didn’t even have a little word with the perpetrator. In the circumstances, it was a bad challenge, he could have had someone’s eye out with that, literally. Anderson was off the pitch for three or four minutes, during which Town played with 10 men. Brentford whacked it forward utilising their little/large front pairing well, but ultimately ineffectively. Ah Brentford, same old Brentford; whatever, whenever, their teams always seems to consist of a couple of tiny scurriers and the rest whack whatever is nearest very far down the pitch. Subtlety is for yer yoghurt eating neighbours, for teams whose supporters wear turtle neck sweaters and white trousers. Worked it out yet, nothing of any consequence was happening. Ball in air, header, tackle, throw in - random, damp nonsense.

In the 9th minute Brentford lauched a free kick down the Town right. The ball bounced up near McDermott and some stripey bloke, out on the edge of the penalty area. McDermott, the pro, the master, turned his body slightly and nudged the ball away using the top of his shoulder, then cleared. A timid, pathetic shout of handball emerged from one of the home stands.