Grimsby's game with Luton Town tonight was called off yesterday morning because of the snow which fell in the south-east of England over the last couple of days. You'd think that in the age of the train they'd be able to shift some snow and play a game of footy on some grass. Luton, of course, were one of the clubs in the '80s to have a plastic pitch. It wouldn't have happened in their day, etc, etc.
I remember turning up one Saturday morning in... ooh, 1987, I suppose, in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire to play for Gainsborough and District Under-15 Boys, and the pitch was under about three inches of snow. I usually hated playing for this team, because we'd get thrashed week after week, and, apart from my mate Shep, I didn't really know any of the other lads, because they all went to school in a different part of Lincolnshire to me and Shep.
I really thought this game was going to be called off, so I turned up to Gainsborough Trinity's ground in a quite relaxed mood. Imagine my surprise, then, when our bastard manager made us walk around the pitch to mark out the lines half an hour before kick off.
I spent most of the first half with my hands shoved down my shorts. It was bitter. And we didn't have an orange ball, so you couldn't really see the white one til it was five yards away from you, by which time you had about half a second to extract your hands and get on with playing.
I remember feigning an injury about five minutes before half time, and pulling the requisite faces and adopting The Limp, but the manager ignored me. We lost 4-0, as I recall. I don't think I've ever been as cold as that.
See, these modern footballers have got it easy. Pansies.