Absent Friends: Swansea Report

Grimsby Town 1 Swansea City 1
30 Oct 2004, Coca Cola League 2

Of course the Main Standers would have longer johns, wouldn’t they. Around 100-150 Swanovians puffed out their chests in the Osmond. They were loud and proud; they were here - just get used to it, why don’t you.

Town lined up in the 3-4-3 formation, as shown. Feeling miserable already? A cultural desert: Pinaultless and unSestanoviched, who would be the creator? Who would pass? Would they bother trying? Urgh, it wasn’t going to be pretty. Hang on, hang on. Where’s Transit Stan? Last seen flouncing out of Cleethorpes, according to the latecomers listening to lilting David Burns. Oh dear. How apt that he’s sponsored by Toni and Guy Hairdressers. Or maybe it was the only time they could fit him in. Priorities, eh.

Three of the advertisement boards were missing from above the Main Stand. Can’t Fenty be bothered to get up a ladder these days, now he’s Mr Chairman? Perhaps he should spend some time peering at the programme, Simon Ramsdon? And how many "n’s" in Glennnnnnnnnn Downey, the mythological creature that Town forgot.

Swansea warmed up with some vigour and vim by the players tunnel, looking large, but without too much fourth division hair. Even Trundle had had it cut. They are obviously serious about promotion then. Swansea played in a simple, but effective, red shirts and white shorts number. Town reverted to red socks, thus pleasing the crusty, middle-aged 31 year old traditionalists out there. I spoke too soon, Garry Monk had a proto-fluffy mullet, with Ricketts a couple of weeks’ growth behind him in the hair bear stakes

As kick off approached both teams got in a huddle. It’s so passé, everybody’s doing it these days. Aloof indifference will be the next fashionable thing. Argh, we did that last spring, didn’t we.

Dish of the Day: Rob Jones’ Steak and Chips. We can’t class tomato ketchup as a vegetable, apparently, so it has to be peas. You can’t go wrong with peas.

1st half

One of the teams kicked off, Town kicked towards the Osmond End.

Sorry, what was that? Did I miss something? Fifteen minutes! Fifteen minutes before either side had what a generous observer would call a shot. Daly twisted in the centre and slapped a shot 17 yards wide. Sure there were moments when something might have almost happened. Parkinson miss-kicked 20 yards out and, er, well, the ref was annoying.

Swansea passed the ball to each other, tapping out a rhythm with Martinez the conductor, Trundle the virtuoso fiddler. They fumbled around beautifully until the edge of the Town penalty area. Well, well, well, isn’t that familiar? We’d left the sexy part of our orchestra on the bench, Town were all trombone and cellos; a cacophony. We prefer Beethoven to Stockhausen Mr Sladen. Williams made a point of rolling the ball out to the centre backs, but what was the point? It just meant someone else lamped the ball upfield willy-nilly. Trundle was sinking into the space between the so-called midfield enforcers and back three, being allowed to turn and gather up some momentum. Only a Coldicott hooking slide-tackle stopped him near the edge of the penalty area as danger loomed. Well done Yard Dog, that’s what you’re supposed to do. He did one more during the half and the rest of time he was as ineffective as Fleming. It was hard to tell who was worse. They offered nothing going forward and provided little protection in defence, the constant pigs in the middle.