Gone to the Dogs: Boston Report

Boston United 1 Grimsby Town 1
12 Mar 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Around 1,800 Townites squeezed into this time capsule, observing the cultural difference ‘twixt north and south. Oh look, they even lay on performance art in their home stands: a boy in a blue tracksuit doing some "urban" street moves; a Goldie-looking shame, jiving along to the Town fans’ haunting hymn "You’re just a chav in a trackie". They could thatch the roofs and call it quaint, the tourists would flock.

Flock, such an appropriate word. Flocks of sheep grazing on the pitch during the week - how else could it get in that state? Brown with a soupçon of green; Colin and Justin would have kittens. Now that would be a tabloid exposé, wouldn’t it.

Perhaps they should call their new ground something appropriate for the brave new Boston, something in the local dialect: Parque das Batatas perhaps. Their chairman sounds like Alan Partridge - aha! "There is no such thing as spin, only positive PR." Sounds rather Fentyish in the Fens.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation, as shown. Do you think Downey's a fan who paid a huge amount to sit on the bench for a whole season? Did we miss that auction on the Official Site, dulled as we were by Peter Furneaux’s crockery sale?

Boston stood around in a sort of 3-5-2, morphing to 3-4-3, formation with two perky pests and a puppy up front. Pitt the younger, Thomas the terror and Daryl Clare. The trophy wife long since departed; Gazza is a mnemonic now, or did some one say he was a pneumatic? The ears are not what they seem.

We have the yard-dog, they have our old puppy-dog. Let the illegal dog-fight in a crumbling farm begin.

1st half

Boston kicked off towards the heaving, soon to be seething, mass of mad Mariners. Back to a fullish back lobbed and looped behind McDermott. No problems, take it nice and easy. Lord Sir Macca, about 25 yards out, nodded sagely towards Williams. Oh did the sky open and a thunderbolt strike, for King John failed, merely dippling the ball to Pitt, who had raced into the nebulous region between goalkeeper and defence. Macca had stopped in Splisby, which is no good for anyone, is it. Pitt surged on, stopped and laid the ball back to Thomas, just outside the area. The Town defence existed in theory as the ball was crossed low in to the box. CLARE, about 10 yards out in the centre, wafted his left boot and mis-hit a shot low to Williams’ right. He stooped, flicked out his right arm and flipped the ball into the side netting next to the post. Twenty one seconds, the Town defence not so solid a crew. So soiled, more like.

I saw a mouse! Where? There in the heart of Town defence, a little mouse with gloves on.

At this point we became aware of the home supporters. Ah, Boston Stump and acres of fen, the rosy red cheeks of the little children. Nice for them.

The Town fans were silenced immediately, the rollicking atmosphere punctured by inept defending. And things did not get better. Boston controlled play, controlling the ball, which always helps. Town were outmanoeuvred, Slade out-thought, the players out-fought. Town players hoofing, humping, mis-kicking, blindly panicking; unable to control simple passes, shinning clearances; stumbling, bumbling. Standing still and watching the wheels go round and round. Out-numbered in midfield, out-paced at the back; no fluency, no rhythm, no football. Shocking. Embarrassing.