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Should Russell Slade be sacked?

Yes immediately
Give him one more game


Morecambe Report Part 2

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 19/10/2005

THERE were no changes by either team at half time. Town’s psychological warfare department came up with the idea that making the opposition listen to the whole of "Up The Mariners" would demoralise them and inspire us.

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

I think it worked the other way round. "In the Pontoon Stand" -there’s nobody there: hardly inspiring.

Ah yes, the second half: probably best digested in ten-minute chunks. I’ll tell it to you on fast forward, just stopping for the interesting bits... gh~~a[1gdkCranefhwrqhbeyf974rubbishj> Cohen had a shot.


After 55 minutes the limping young Mr pink-v-neck-jumper-aren’t-northerners-friendly-Slade was replaced by Ashton. This necessitated some kind of structural change which the management forgot to get planning permission for. Town are a listing building, they should know they need Council approval. Francis went to the left wing, Cohen went up front, Ashton wandered about for 10 minutes.


Ah, a Town free kick hoiked into the area; the Morecambe defence slipping out of the disco whilst the lights were down and catching four Town players offside. Cohen still challenged the keeper, clattering and causing a three minute hold up whilst their physio, Ricky Tomlinson, carried out some minor embroidery. From the restart Ramsden did the decent thing and passed the ball to Ashton, for the first time today. He ploughed the field and scattered the defence, zipping to the bye-line and dinking a flat cross that hovered at crossbar height. Robinson tangled himself up and clawed the ball into the net. ASHTON! Or, as the tannoy announced, "number 4 Simon Ramsden". Realising his error he re-announced "Number 8, Paul Ashton". Ashton was number 25. Numbers, names, does it really matter? The existential tannoy announcer: randomness personified. There are no fractions in space.


Let’s rewind. At some stage Lewis Carroll pinged a shot from outside the area which Mildenhall hopped across to and flicked over like he was wafting away a particularly pungent aroma. No, no, he uses his real name these days: Dodgson was the kicker.


Town in a tizz; Hegggarty exposed by the big bad wolf, a cross rolled through the centre, legs waddling ,Whittle arriving, Mildenhall plucking. Town descended into badness; Gritton’s legs moving like a cartoon character, whirling madly on the spot, no lateral movement. Have we used up our quota of yawning?

Fancy a wince pie? Barwick, possibly bored, decided he wanted to go trampolining. Just a yellow card for a two-footed bounce on a Shrimp’s shins. Ouch.


With about ten minutes left Chamberlain replaced Hegarty and strolled over to right back, with Ramsden going on the left; or did Francis go over to the left; or was it the pellet with the poison in the vessel with the pestle: the chalice from the palace has the brew that is true? And would you like sugar with that? Is it worth it? It was just a rumour that was spread around town. Please score somebody. Please. Anyway, anyhow, anywhere. Somebody help me.

A teenager in a Newcastle United shirt walked along the Upper Smiths/Stones/Findus Stand. He didn’t evaporate despite five hundred pairs of eyes concentrated upon his heart.

After about 85 minutes on came the non-league Emile Heskey: Palmer replaced Francis, and Town slipped into those bad old habits: 3:4:3 and lots of lumps. Chamberlain played on the left of a back three and there was a facsimile transmission masquerading as a left wing-back. Palmer was some kind of left-side striker and frankly, my dear, who gives a damn. There were males in the appropriate colours down in the pitch, movement optional, or perhaps an optical illusion. Palmer and Gritton scurried into the area and managed to dummy themselves several times, lying on the floor six yards out whilst their keeper bemused and amused, calmly picking the ball up as they pretended to be drunken caterpillars.

In one of the 5 minutes of added time Morecambe finally attacked, dibbling down their left, Crane backed off, watched the ball carefully and studiously ignored the little number 17 as he walked into a big open space in the middle of the area. The ball was duly clipped to him and to the annoyance of all, young Hunter curled the ball around Mildenhall and around the post.


The report continues in Extra Time.

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