20/09 Tottenham Part 2

Grimsby Town 1 Tottenham Hotspurs 0
20 Sep 2005, Carling Cup

This is nice, watching opponents content themselves with possession, pac-manning across the park. This is nicer, them passing the ball out of play. This premiership stuff is like the fourth division: it just takes them a bit longer to give us a throw in, and with a bit more jewellery. Reddy racing, Naybet gnawing, King kerrang!ing the ball out for a corner. In, out, Parky slipping the ball in to the near post, Jones the Lump noodling, Robinson parrying, linesman flagging, crowd OOOOOOOOing. Ping! Game on.

Hustling, harrying, Town growing with possession kept, passes being made. The concrete and clay beneath Spurs feet beginning to crumble; these are hollow men, their passes falling into shadows. Hold that breath! And....relax. Defoe free behind the defence, McDermott placing his legendary status between the young pretender and the ball. Offside anyway, but why let this masterclass of Maccaness pass without eulogy? Still Town probed, pushing at this creaking gate: are there any British bulldogs in the garden? Oh yes, Bolland snap, crackled and popped a shot into the comfortably numb Spurs-ites at the back of the Osmond. They don't like it up 'em, cried the Corporals Jones.

Gulp. Is this it? Jenas dribbling, flicks, tricks and Reid tickled behind the centre backs, shoving His Maccaness aside. Reid poked, Vampiro Mildo raised his wings high and swooped down upon this little dormouse, plucking him from the ground and taking this morsel back to the nest for a light tea. A light tea, something Reid is clearly unfamiliar with. At some point Keane headed the ball inside the Town penalty area and it bounded towards the goal with an impish gait. It's alright, it missed; no need to call the paramedics.

Ah, Town are on the move, scraping, scrapping, slapping the aristocrats with an inflatable rainbow trout. Pounding down the right, Spurs spiked, the ball flighted to the far post where Jones the Lump used his high-fibre breakfast to noodle in front of Naybet and nod back across the face of goal. Reddy lurked, King emerged from the murk to muddle clear. The crowd rising, the roof riding the sonic boom from the Pontoon. Cohen and Sparky Parky troubled the full-backs with persistent probing. Crosses piling in and Jones the Lump charged into the six yard box from a Reddy flick. King slid, Jones slod, the referee wiggled like a snake and waddled like a duck, well that's what you do when you do the hucklebuck. No penalty. We didn't ask. Cohen surging past one, two, three four, can I have a little more? Parkinson winning tackles, muscling opponents away. I repeat: Parkinson winning tackles, muscling opponents away. You read that right. Smelling salts anyone?

Ah that's nice for them. They've come all this way and haven't had the chance to say hello. The Tottinghams tootled forward, turned up the amp to 11 and Keane was flickered free down their right. The Town defence splayed like a dissected frog, the cross flew into the near post, six yards out. Defoe sprang and glanced a free header a couple of feet wide of Mildenhall's right-hand post. Vorsprung Deficient Technic. We laughed, then remembered he's England's back-up striker. Then we laughed again, like we did last summer. Are you interested in Jermaine Jenas? No, no-one should be. The greedy wastrel dribbled past half the Town team, ignored unmarked team mates and looked aghast that he wasn't allowed to Harlem Globetrot. Whittle superbly venus flytrapped him. They didn't come back to the Pontoon again, too embarrassed I think. They were no match for our untamed wit.

"The ball moved - is Uri Geller flying overhead?"
"Have I ever told you about Horace the cheeseboard?"
"I wouldn't have put Defoe in my fantasy team if I'd seen him play."
"He couldn't take the call because he was reading the Magna Carta."
"Whittle's on fire! Well, not literally"