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JPKK: Penalty
JPKK: Penalty

29/08 Rushden 2nd Half

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 30/08/2005

NEITHER team made any changes at half time, with Rushden left waiting at the aisle by our blushing brides. Ah, at last, here they are, delayed by a bit of haggling; the old Bentley driving guru had put up his price. Andrew sidled off to the right, Parky to the left.

Home > 2005-2006 Season > Reports > Rushden (h)

Grimsby Town 2 Rushden and Diamonds 0
29 Aug 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Let's see action, let's see people, let's see some freedom of movement; let's see who cares.

Another free kick. Pity that the ref's whistle is still superglued to his lower lip. Newey 25 yards out on the Town right: the perfect position to curl the ball over the wall and into the Pontoon. Well done lad, executed perfectly. Not one Pontoonite rose in anticipation, all remained chewing, choking, chortling and chattering.

Diddle-di-dum-di-dee. Andrew was beginning to lean on Professor Hawkins, the wire-haired elder statesman in the Rushden defence. Look, it's there in the trees! A pass. Town were squeezing closer to the young men, inducing mistakes: passes astray, passes intercepted. Andrew nicking some sweets from a little boy, racing clear. Oh, possession lost. No, possession regained, knocked over the top on the centre right. Reddy racing, the goalie off his line, the ball bounced between Heathcliffe and Kathy. Young jumped and patted Reddy on the head like a Morris man with ants in his pants, shaking his stick and waggling his ankle bells. Reddy, stunned by this invasion of his personal space, collapsed in horror, dropping his accordion as he tumbled out of play, the ball long since confined to the history books. The Pontoon bellowed, the referee yellowed, giving a penalty, to the chuckling Pontoon's delight. Were they recreating famous scenes from the past, this week Garry Parker ruffles Brian Laws' hair.

Penalty! Doh! Penalty! Whose turn to miss this week? The Kalala-bear strode forward with the ball after a bit of wrestling with Croft. Young stood on one leg by his left post in sultry pose. Kalala-dimba scruffled the penalty low to the keeper's right, Young arrived via Hornsea Potteries to palm the ball into the side of the net, just inside the post. For those of you watching in black and white KALALA had scored. He ran into the crowd, engulfed by manic Mariners and was booked for being happy. What was he to do? He couldn't help it. The referee should have booked the lad in the grey T-shirt who dragged Kalala in, hands clearly in use, tugging his shirt, surely a free kick to Town.

Anyway, there you are: 2-0. Forty minutes left, shall we go for a stroll in Peoples Park?

Free kick, free kick, corner, free kick, free kick, free kick, free kick, free kick, throw-in, free kick; everybody's talking about free kick-kicks, or is that more rabbit than Sainsbury's. This ref's becoming a pest. A bit of Rushden paisley pattern passing down the centre, a free kick given for Jones being bigger. In the centre, 20 yards out, a huge space to Mildenhall's right, the ball slappered in to the wall: no worries. I don't think I'll spoil this piece of fiction if I reveal that the character Mr Rushden, the earnest but bumbling young vicar, doesn't marry the fisherman's daughter. In fact he barely figures in the rest of this story, just a passing reference to falling off his pennyfarthing when he witnesses the hero's final flourish in the Park.

O'Grady had a shot, it went way over but remained within Blundell Park. It kept the away fires burning. A small puff of wind to the dying embers.

Steve Mildenhall
John McDermottgoal
Tom Newey
Justin Whittle
Jean-Paul Kamudimbagoalyellow card
Michael Reddy
Andy Parkinson
Rob Jones
Gary Jones
Gary Croft
Calvin Andrew


Tony Crane89 mins
Martin Gritton63 mins
Simon Ramsden
Terry Barwick
Glenn Downey


Russell Booth


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Around the hour Monsieur Jean-Paul Kamudimba Kalalalalalalala-I-have-my-fingers-in-my-ears-I'm-not-listening hacked a little Rushie person from behind. The ref allowed advantage, then studiously ignored the attempted decapitation. Jones the Stick walked up to Red Legs and wagged his finger in a threatening manner. A minute later Jones the Lump disappeared and out of the mists came Martin Gritton. Today, Mathew, I shall be a professional footballer. And an excellent impersonation he did; well done Marty. Then a Rushie mantrapped the JPKK. Leaving him writhing in agony, clutching his knees. Perhaps the Sellotape came loose.

You can relax now, it's downhill all the way; the Rushden soufflé imploded. Town were in the ascendant, even playing football. Passing. To each other. Using the wingers, crossing, that sort of thing. After some neat little flicking and tricking down the right Andrew barbecued Hawkins, crossed and the ball was cleared out to Jones. The thinnest footballer on earth swept a majestic pass through the defence, sending Parkinson free inside the area on the left. The scouse scamperer looked up, stepped inside and curled a cross over the keeper towards the lurking Andrew. Young managed to get his fingertips to the ball and claw it away. He had very long arms and a short body, like Max Wall.

Ooh, simper and whimper: old style Town, attacking with power, precision, passing and not scoring. McDermott marvellously intercepted on the edge of the Town area as one of the unremarkable Rushies almost burst through. Macca scraped the ball out to Parky, who dimpled it up the left to Gritton, inside the Town half. Out came the brush, hair combed back across his forehead at a jaunty angle and a superbly weighted pass curled around two defenders into the path of the rampaging Reddy. Defenders were blown away in the cool breeze and Reddy rolled along the touchline, raced into the area with just the keeper to beat. Eight yards out: a goal? No, Reddy forgot to slow down, leaving the ball bumbling about his ankles like a bored dog on its fifth walkies of the day. Young picked it up as Reddy unfurled his parachute and air brakes.

Ooh, whimper and simper, more old style Town, with knobs on. Suddenly Parky was free behind the defence after Town had applied some Svengali-like mind tricks upon the Rushden defence. Perhaps it was the sudden application of a false beard by Gary Croft which lured them into a web of deceit? Distracted? Hah, you fell for it just like the Diamond Dogs in defence. Andrew hit a great cross-field pass to Gritton, who tickled Parky away on the left, sinning and singing past two blue ex-Max's. To the bye-line, a quick glance, Gritton called and a sublime pass into the Scot's stride, fifteen yards out. Gritton carefully opened up his body and steered a shot across Young and about 38mm wide of the left hand post. Worth two oohs that, and got it.

Let's have a rest for a while shall we. Over there, on that wooden bench. Not long now before you can go back to your root vegetables. Just five minutes to go. Oh, they're still here are they? McDermott arrived on his horse to head them off with a pass to Croft. Jones continued to head the ball, Whittle held his back a lot and Newey...was still on the pitch. A cross, a header, almost a goal. Andrew rising beyond the far post to head across the keeper and just in front of Gritton. In the last minute Jones was bloodied and, rather than swap shirts, Crane replaced him. Jones got the ovation he deserved. What a difference a year makes. Is that it? No, there's more to come. Reddy sniggled past Hawkins on the halfway line, Hawkins tussled with the tousled one and they both fell over. A yellow card only, despite Reddy being beyond the last man. So what really, this game was long since over. And still there's more. Andrew pile- driving forward, Reddy rivelling down the right, crossing deep to the unmarked Gritton, who arose and headed 5 yards wide, with Parkinson free behind.

Finally Cyril, we could go home, those three points long since mouldering in our rucksacks.

What a curious game, for Town were hopeless in the first half, and just a little bit better in the second. But that was all it took to dispose of the young pretenders, who were nice guests. They brought the wine and watched us drink it. Now go home. It wasn't until Rushden had given up and started to leave spaces that Town began to resemble a competent attacking force. Defensively Town were fine. Mildenhall visibly pleased the defence with his positive calling and catching. They, like us, feel safe with him around. The midfield existed and broadly stood in the right places, but going forward Town were just long ball cloggers for an hour. Why do they do it? Russ claims it's not him, so maybe something gets lost in translation. Perhaps Town are still a work in progress, only the base colours have been applied, the details come later, for it is the detail that marks the difference between a painting and a picture.

For relaxing times, make it Grimsby times.

Nicko's Man of the Match

McDermott was supreme again with a gloriously glorious goal of great glority topping his cake. But let's share these things about. Over the Bank Holiday Macca and one other have been excellent. Macca got it on Saturday, so today it's our Cinderella Rockafella, Mr Rob Jones. We love his jazz razzamatazz.

Markie's Unman of the Match

No-one was so awful they deserve some rotting vegetation hurled at them. A couple were on the fringes of poor. We'll save the baseball bats for another day.

Rob's rant of the day

"Shoot", whenever His Exellency the Marquis de Macca went within 20 years of the ball. Town fans think in straight lines don't they, and they never get off 'em. It was always like that in Lawrie Mac's day too.

Official Warning

Mr R Booth. What a big puff he has, to whistle so much in 90 minutes. He just wouldn't shut up. Mr Fusspot insisted on the ball being placed in exactly the right place, and no touching you boys. A ropey penalty decision in our favour, an extremely kind memory loss when Kamudimba used a machete in broad daylight to stop an attack. At least he was a homer at the right times. Nah, why be nice, he was rubbish, I now detect an alien vibration here, there's something in the air besides the atmosphere. His lucky number's 3.218

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