Let It Snow: Lincoln Report

Grimsby Town 3 Lincoln City 0
28 Dec 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Brrgh, stamp your feet, clap your hands: it’s cold. The pitch was flecked with white streaks but perfect. Yes, they are a modern rock combo; what is noisy swamp blues?

Town lined up in the 4-4-2 type formation, as shown. The substitutes pulled their frilly nylon tracksuits right up tight. Nothing to add except Gritton’s absence, with his name flashing across the technological marvel that is the scoreboard right up to kick off. Can you blame him? It’s a bit too cold to sit around watching football.

It’s Christmas: time for the traditional Grandstand schedule-filling minority sport. Welcome to Keefball. I’ve just looked the rules up on the internet: running with the ball is forbidden and players may only mark a player of the same sex; apart from playing within one half of the field there are no set positions. Yup, sums up Big Keef’s Lincoln, who played in their red’n’white striped shirts, red shorts and white socks. Not at all clashing with Town then.

Dish of the Day: it’s official - being cuddly and round is just not good enough for a professional footballer. He should eat a jam sandwich and pull the wings off a wasp whilst poking it with a stick and listening to Radio Luxembourg. It doesn’t say which flavour jam though.

Tommy Taylor. This is also a time to remember those we have lost. Is he behind the sofa in the Cheapside canteen?

Come on, let’s get on with it before Hull freezes over.

1st half

Town kicked off towards the Pontoon. Oh look the referee is two foot six inches, dwarfed by Parky and Asamoah. Handy for making a snow man out of though. Has anyone brought along a carrot?

The game started in expected kicky-rushy fashion, with Town players the most likely to touch the ball intentionally. Lincoln were, erm, shall we say aspiring towards Route 1, giving Town the shimmering veneer of dilettante aesthetes. From the off Lincoln just looked a bunch of awful footballers, incapable of controlling the ball or kicking it accurately. Hoofing suggests dignity in their folie. After three minutes the referee awarded them a free kick 20 yards out in the centre right as Whittle’s breath temporarily obstructed the view of one of their amorphous, anonymous and anodyne strikers. Kerr weighed up his options, envisioned glory, uttered his personal mantra and passed the ball into the arms of the Man in Tights. The only sane and rational reaction to this starts with "P" and end in "ffft".

More lumping and dumping the ball over the hills and far, far away. Biff-bang-wallop, the ball boomed long and hard downwind and out of sight, bouncing off a man’s head and deep into the Town area. Newey, about ten yards out near the right-hand post, stretched back and noodled the ball over the Man in Tights and onto the roof of the net. The knotty band of Imps were excited by this, which amused us monochromers no end. In fact we are still chuckling at such desperate hopefulness. Biff-bang-wallop, a throw in to Lincoln twenty yards out on their left. Some bloke lobbed the ball high and distant, deep into the Town area. Croft, at the near post, stretched back and glanced the ball goalwards. Mild-in-tights leapt to his left and slapped the ball aside, it bouncing free eight yards out at the far post. Johnny Logan stepped forward and crimpled a shot against the lunging Cohen’s backside. No not Johnny, Richard Logan, he must be the amorphous one. Are we the only lower division east coast side he hasn’t failed for?