Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads?

Grimsby Town 0 Wycombe Wanderers 0
09 Apr 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Town lined up in a 5:3:2 formation, as shown. Ramsden was, as trailed to the incredulous populous, at left wing back with Crowe somewhere in the middle of the middle, piddling about. And Parkinson was up front with the shrinking violet. Some will try to say it was 3-5-2, but that's a very thin whitewash applied to a crumbling garden wall. Count them - there were nine defensive players in the Town team, with three more on the bench. Now that's the way to get the crowds back. No Pinault, so no passing. Russ had left the cake out in the rain, I don't think the fans can take it, 'cause it took so long to bake it, and we may never have that recipe again.

Justin Whittle wore a pink tie; before the game, obviously, not during it, for that would be entertaining, which will not do.

To Grimsby a travelling circus came, they brought an intelligent elephant and Claridge was his name. They also had Bo and Luke Duke's midfield general Robert E Lee moonshining in the middle. Oh yeah, and that Tyson bloke; scores lots of goals, supposedly fast, blah, blah. Hang on did you say "goals" Bert? What are these things you call "goals".

Dish of the Day? Like this season it has disappeared up its own alimentary canal. Today's it's players' tipples again, with Russell Slade driven to drink by March madness. He likes a pint of bitter. How appropriate for the mood.

1st half

Wycombe kicked off towards the Pontoon, interrupting a hundred conversations about a hundred disparate matters. No need to worry about a thing. So did you read the G(E)T on Friday? Man eats breakfast, riot police called. There's a lesson for us all here: never wave a wooden pig at a policeman, nor taunt them with cartons of milk. Something must be done about milk: that lactose rush really kicked in.

Football? Nah, don't bother, come back in five minutes.

Two teams hanging like a striped pair of pants.

I said five minutes. Go away, my mind is wandering. You have to amuse yourself somehow.

Ah, hello again. A Town corner, Whittle headed high, headed wide, no children hurt. It wasn't worth coming back from the fridge for, was it. Oh, you want all that flow-of-the-game-feeling sort of thing do you? Town passes over-hit, Wycombe fiddling about, nothing going on to disturb those farmyard ducks trailing their chains in the mud. Call the RSPCA immediately.

What's Crowe doing? Good question; maybe there is no answer? Ah, I remember, the government passed an act giving ramblers the right to roam over vast swathes of Britain. He was everywhere and nowhere baby, with his hippy rucksack.

Twelve minutes: Wycombe break. Bloomfield free down the centre, za-zooming unmolested by retreating armadillos. Inspector Gadget Jones extended his left leg out to block, Claridge drumbled a follow-up straight to some other Town foot. Kick off your shoes, lay down your head, have a little snooze, dream a little dream of brie.