17/09 Torquay Part 2

Grimsby Town 3 Torquay United 0
17 Sep 2005, Coca Cola League 2

He tickled the ball infield to Bolland who slathered a shot across goal, across the floodlights, across the universe. But hey, two shots in two minutes, that's more than Winston Churchill ever did.

It's still a bit quiet.

Minutes passed by. We'll never get them back, so make the most of them. Look around you: Sir John brave and fearless, peerless and imperious, smothering Kuffour, shepherding him away from goal. Kuffour? Ah yes, every team has to have a Town reject these days. It's that or a Jermaine. This lad was bright, tricky and zoomtastically quick, but getting to the ball is one thing, getting past Macca is another. Did they have a shot? Nothing that went to Mildenhall. He flickered around and flavoured their milk shake, but they couldn't find a straw. They worried with their potential, not their actual.

Jones the Lump spun and slimed a cracker goalwards, the 'keeper leaping to his left and magnificently tipping the ball aside for a corner. Quite brilliant. Ho follows ho, got you there, didn't I. No such fortune for the paying public. Lumpy custard pie Jones creaked and croaked, the ball bumbled through to Marriott who had enough time to check his internet banking account to see whether his credit card payment had cleared. It had. Sipping a latte on the veranda he held out his hand and the few, the happy few Torbayites behind him were content. Torquay, Torbay, it's the same place.

A pigeon flew down the pitch, gliding gracefully into the Pontoon. Such poise, such elegance, such a danger to the man in seat F72. So that's why he wears a large hat.

Oooh, did I miss something? Sure did. Town starting to attack, pressing the yellow army back into the sea. What do you mean you can't see the sea - it's there between the land and the sky. Cohen flibbling, fumbling and felled, a free kick about thirty yards out on the centre left. The wall just an illusion, a figment of Rosenior's imagination. Russ's favourite Frenchman (2005) curdled the ball through the wall and round the post. Marriott dived to his right to justify his wages. Another minute, another free kick in exactly the same spot after Reddy had done some brass rubbings down the centre. Barwick! Hello, you are on the pitch, not just occupying space sensibly in front of captain sensible. Let's talk about things you'd like to do. Score a goal? You got to have a dream, if you don't have a dream...two steps, a clipped shot and an "OOOOO" as Mr Squarepeg delightfully sculptured the ball over the wall. Marriott flew to his right and clutched the ball as it floated towards the side of the goal.

See, starting to get interesting now, isn't it. And I forgot to tell you about a trademark Reddy run down their right: the centre backs quivering in their backbone, the left back shaking in the kneebone. Reddy drove his big Winnebago into the area and slid a sneaky little shot low across the keeper, who clung on one-handed. Torquay on the edge, the ledge crumbling.

Slowly, slowly Town emerged from their nuclear bunker. The full backs were supporting the attacks, crosses were made and defenders flayed. Reddy rippling on the right towards the corner flag, McDermott scooting along the touchline in support, a cross flicked over to the centre of the area.

"I can only think of dungarees and puffa skirts."
"Torquay are alright until they have to do anything."
"Sometimes I can't tell whether I'm in the Pontoon or the National Theatre."
"Rob Jones is like Worzel Gummidge: he just had the wrong head last year."
"I've always thought of Miles as a man who'd wear a purple suit."