Too Much of Nothing: Wycombe Report

Grimsby Town 0 Wycombe Wanderers 1
07 Oct 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Those extra eight Town fans released into the community could recline in splendour across as many seats as they wished.

The pre-match warm up was punctuated by wayward Townness. Gritton clobbered Jones the Stick behind the right ear with a crossfield pass; Crane clattered a pot-shot wide, the ball thumping against a young woman's face. Crane leapt over the barriers, ran up the Pontoon steps and consoled his unconsolable victim until the St John's Ambulancers eventually arrived and wheeled her away on a stretcher.

Town lined up in the 4-4-Lump-1 formation, as shown. Ah, back to that cavalier formation with Jones the Lump: a feast of trotting awaits. A middle-aged man wiped away a tear or two at the sight of Lumpy and the terrible twosome on the left, Hurricane Andrew and Typhoon Tom. Devastation likely, please leave the area, it's for your own safety.

Wycombe were without Tyson and Talia, but old Moonman was there, as was the fabulous contrabulation that was Sergio Torres' hair. Held back by a hair band, the locks spilled over like a newly-opened champagne bottle, cascading from his head down to his toes. Well, he's Argentinian you know, via Boots the chemist. Does he, or doesn't he use Harmony hairspray? And they had Anya on the bench. I never liked Clannad, too many wistful pipes and celtic fringes.

Dish of the Day: Not Michael Reddy with his "Wensleydale Parky?" smile, nor even food, but a philosophical meditation on the rights of the individual versus the Public Good. Full fat crisps or vegetables? Is it an allegory for last season? We know Slade has a Pinault allegory; it brings him out in a rash.

It is time for you to stop all of your sobbing. The ceremony is about to begin.

1st half

In a packed programme tonight we'll be meeting ladies who like Nicholas Parsons and parsons who like.. no, no, in a packed stadium tonight we'll be meeting men who hate Tommy Mooney and Moonie men who hate The Who's Tommy. Stop booing, I can't hear myself tuning up.

Wycombe kicked off towards the Pontoon, passing, passing, pinging towards Betsy. Newey intercepted and launched the ball down the left. A throw in, Bolland cracked his whip and released Parkinson down the wing, who cut infield and loopled a drive from the edge of the penalty area which gently drifted over the angle of post and bar. Excellent: a positive Town start; a pass, a shot, jolly good.

That's as good as it got for half an hour. The hairboys delivered a short seminar on passing and movement. Town strummed like a cheap guitar, Wycombe plucked their harp, swooshing angelically towards a crescendo. Betsy and Senda on the right, interchanging and interchangeable - let's call them Benda for short - filleted the bloated dogfish that was Town's left. Newey exposed, Parkinson exhumed, a masterclass in winger play followed. About five minutes in, Betsy hurtled down the right touchline, Newey retreating, standing away, allowing him to crash infield, into the penalty area. Besty shuffled on, Newey kept a polite distance, opening the curtains and showing our visitor a clear view of the coast from the bedroom window. Betsy pinged a shot from about a dozen yards out straight at Mildenhall. The pattern was set.