Cod Almighty | Diary

Diary - Friday 9 January 2004

9 January 2004

Good afternoon! Today your Diary comes from Nottingham, and, as I write this, my new valet, Dearden, is busy making me a boiled egg with soldiers. Three minutes and no more, Dearden! Else I'll set Clive Platt on you!

More of him later, but every self-respecting Town fan will, of course, be fearing the worst for tomorrow. Plymouth Argyle may have made sure that GTFC no longer reside alone in the 'worst defeats' stats, but they gave up didn't they? Five-nil up after 20 minutes and they take their foot off the gas? You wouldn't catch Hartlepool doing that, oh no...

All of which leaves Mr Groves teaming up with New Labour to spin some good news using only the most selective of statistics. On Town's official site he mutters: "In terms of clean sheets which we've kept, and if you take away the first eight games of the season, I think we've conceded one every other game." While coughing at the same time. John Prescott would be proud. Jeremy Paxman would be flummoxed. Town would beat Plymouth one and a half-nil. It's all very simple when you think about it.

Meanwhile, the evil doctor Furneaux is busy denying, in totality, the fact that Messrs Pouton and Boulding are on their way to Gillingham, waving his hanky about, saying: "There's no point in talking about rumours." Has this man never stood in the queue at the Post Office? Obviously not. Also, you'd think Boulding would want to settle down a bit: if he carries on like this, he'll be up for the part in the film version of The Littlest Hobo. And... oh yeah, Town'd be buggered.

Talking of strikers with itchy feet, Barry Fry has made the ultimate sacrifice and signed the pretty rubbish Town near-miss Clive Platt from Notts County - stop crying, Dearden! - and that'll learn the portly gobshite for putting Town out of the Cup. Fry, I mean. Not Platt.

In dull, administrative news today, we find that the Luton game has been rearranged and is now all set for Tuesday 24 February. So that'll be nice and cold then.

Any road, I've got egg on my chin, and Dearden is spitting into a tissue. I think it's best to wish you all farewell...