Old Git was at this afternoon's reserve friendly. Here's what he made of proceedings.

Town Reserves 3-1 Peterborough United First Team
by your man up a stepladder, but down in the mouth, at pitchside, OlderGit@Reserves.com.eu.lux.inmylovelyBRGjagallbymyselfwhichishowipreferitthankyouatmyage.

Down in the mouth because it's grand to watch the Rezzies at FPR; at Bent Lane, without either Bent, or a team sheet, or a seat, it's not grand - you stand

Never mind, a gaggle of young lads in Town shirts comfortably spanked what Barry Fry claimed to be his own 'kids', though they were listed as Peterborough United FC, with three first half goals, after Howard Fotherington had unexpectedly given Posh a lead soon after the kick-off. I know the scorer's name only because I asked a Posh fan with a speech impediment whose friends rescued him from me, poor chap. (Fotherington is ex-Yeovil, the Posh fan added, cryptically. On his way down, then, I thought, if you're gonna lose to Town's third team, as this effectively was, a huge Town squad having travelled to Bristol for tonight's first team friendly).

Actually, they weren't very posh, though their team's bright green and navy blue strip was. Phil Ham pointed out that Barry Fry is possibly the least posh manager in the Nationwide. So, why are they called Posh?

My middle daughter, Owlie, accompanied me today, together with my father who is holidaying here from Sydney (not with Sydney). Owlie came because she misunderstood and thought that Becks would be playing with Posh or that Tara Palmer-Tomkinson and Ralph Twistleton-Wykeham-Fiennes might be involved.

No, just Barry Fry, who has gained weight - what? Yes, unless a barrel of jelly had been accidentally poured into his cleavage - who parked his navy blue Jaguar next to my BRG Jaguar and we both had similar personalised number plates, mine being POG I (portly Old Git One) and his being POG II, although his could have meant POSH. He's about as posh as Jade, isn't he? He could have had Jade in goal, as she looks like Neville Southall. Actually, she looks a bit like the new Everton goalie, now that I think about it. Ugly, greedy, big-eared girl.

This week, I pass through a 'milestone' birthday (and yes, it really is one of those that scream 'last lap', 'good innings', 'turn him again, nurse', 'what's that smell?') Hence, I am tip-top-eddy qualified to be Officially Reporting to you today, in my embroidered slippers and underpants so thick that they show through my good stout drawers, from a Reserve team pre-season friendly football match, a laughably low point in my long and lovely life.

Silly old, grumpy Old Git. The Reserves are fun for all the family.(Well, not someone like Ozzy Osbourne's family, necessarily, but perhaps Ozzy's friends, the Royal Family, I noticed the Queen lingering at the ITFC stall in Bury, last week; I think she was into some sort of banter with Sheepy about Amir Karic* and the Coronation Carriage...'both cost too much...neither moves very quick' was all I could hear...).

Shane Supple? Is he a porn star or a character from The Tweenies? He was named in a 20-man squad for today's do-or-die-my-t-shirt match against Posh. No, in OUR squad. They make 'em up. The Chairman of Posh is Peter Boizone, isn't it, the founder of Pizza Express, who commands both his chef and his manager, "Barry, fry!" Contrived? Moi?

Peterborough's record attendance is over 30,000**. I counted 91 unemployable, but Town-loving, layabouts and/or their barely continent*** parents at today's sun-kissed tourney, though I wore my sumptuously thick black Inter Milan**** scarf, just in case. Just in case I caught pneumonia, as happened at one of these training ground gitfests last year. But it was balmy. So were we (I know. I've done that one before. If I had not lost all my old Reports, I would recycle all the old jokes. They don't happen to be on some TWTD archive, do they, Phil? [Yes, both your other two jokes can be found in the TWTD archive, search for Old Git — Phil])

Our team was: Peat in goal, Price being with a young Welsh team, Darren Kelly having been forgotten, Branagan being unfit, Pullen and Marshall being in Bristol and Richard 'My Dream Is To Play For Everton' Wright being missed and disloyal, greedy and...enough.

Erdem Artun, the anagram whose name is impossible to spell unless you have it right in front of you, was his usual tidy self at right back. He's no Mauricio Taricco but nor is Makin or Wilnis. Snowdon, who's 'listed', did the second half.

My dad, the EvenOlderGit, who concentrated like mad on the game (unlike me and Phil who kept making girls' jokes: Phil thought his best one was: 'What do you call the sequel to the American Victorian writer Henry James' novel, 'Turn Of The Screw'? 'Return Of The Screw'!) picked the newly shaven-headed (in tribute to Danny Mills' unexpected World Cup success) Matt Richards, at left-back, as MOTM.

Justin Miller you know, now (the effete young Boer. As opposed to the heterosexual old bore, now you remember). In the first half, Marc Smith played with him, in the centre of defence - not a pretty sight. In the second half, a Tonka Toy called Lee Chaffey bowled about like that big bloke who tidies the trolleys in Sainsbury's car-park. Tonka, who was topped off with an Amir Karic tribute haircut, will tell himself that he kept at bay the Posh threat but that threat was hardly in the Nicholas van Hoogstraten class.

Gingery Steve Burton - a natural successor but I hope only in colouring to GingerNut 'Deep In Transfer Talks Today?' Naylor - was, in reality, our MOTM, with two ungingerly-taken goals, the equaliser, after 7 minutes, latching on to a good through ball from Rivelino - banged it in; then the third goal, after half an hour, when put through by the neat but never-makes-the-earth-move-for-me Bloomfield (who is young and keen, though, so don't go saying that the Old Git doesn't like him). Perhaps Burton's going to follow his old youth striking partner, Darren Bent - the eponymous hero of Bent Lane; I can't stop myself saying it - and have a blast of a season. Not-very-big Dean Bowditch, scorer of the two Young England wonder goals, replaced Burton after 75 mins (Okay, the through ball wasn't from Rivelino, but we cannot remember who it was from. 'Twas a good pass, though).

Richard Logan, Burton's sidekick today, needed kicking sideways as always. And that part that you kick is a big target. As always. (And his gorgeous girlfriend's name, Owlie reminded me, is Freda. I knew her name was as Nationwide League Division Three as her looks are premier. ) I know Logan scored today ( to make it 2-1 after 20 mins ) after a superb move begun by Burton, via Westlake on the wing, but his David Johnson Memorial Shorts will always give him away.

Gingery Robert Dickinson---how gingerist am I?- subbed anonymous Guy Bonwick at half time, at which point our goal threat evaporated but that was not logical as BobDick was trying to feed in the balls that he is famous for (Eh? Read that again for me. 'The balls that he is famous for'. Me?).

The second half was a bit dull and no-one scored.

I'm afraid that I failed to monitor the temperature but this was only a pre-season friendly and I did 'gain', as they say, an Exclusive Interview with Mark Venus before the game, as he ate what he described as a 'fat-free' hamburger. He's unfit, though he looked as fit as a fiddle and, as we were ambling, I began to puff, for he ambled as quickly as I run flat out. Unfortunately, he was speaking 'off the record' so I cannot reveal a word of our conversation, apart from telling you that he rambled on about his knees like footballers do. Boring? Only an interview with Micky Stockwell would have been less gripping. Sir Michael was there today, browner than Chocolate Log Logan, but I've told him before that he is a god so there was nothing more to say to him. He is a giant.

I wish Nabil Abidallah was. Is he any smaller than Stockwell? I guess he is, in fact, with calves smaller than the bit of stick that Alastair McGowan gives.

Never mind indeed. A mighty win. And another training ground clash of the (reserve) Titans on Monday, August 5th, at 1pm. Spurs, did Phil say? I lose track. After my milestone birthday, I will be able to wear purple and pass water wherever I'm sitting.

The End.

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The Four Ages of an oldgit's life : lager, Aga, Saga, viagra.

*Who would have thought I could get him into this year's Reserves Reports? You knew I'd try. Incidentally, all those old Reserves Reports burned away into the ether, last week, when my hard drive failed. It would have been undue vanity to have 'backed them up'.

**Don't bother to check. All these tiny, tiny clubs (and Posh, despite some Cup history and a huge drawing area, are a '5,000 max' club) have records like that. Tranmere: 28,000, Reading: 33,000, Manchester United: over 70,000. Inexplicable.

***This is not wanto : 83 of the audience shuffled off, tight-jawed, towards the Clubhouse, at half time. Ain't no beer tent.

****Incidentally, before I pop, I have to ask what is happening about everybody's hero, Sixto? Is anyone from ITFC out there in Argentina, speaking to our favourite Patagonian? I'm too old to understand why it is that we are thinking of anything else. Priorities. Why is he not here with the Squad? No-one has any claim whatsoever on him, in Argie-land, whereas we are his last point of contact with contracts. Inter Milan have refused to let him back...oh, etc, etc. let's get someone camped out on his doorstep, there is no player anywhere in the world that ITFC want/need/almost-have more than Peralta. Don't let him escape just because we've lost the contracts plot. All done. Thank you.

Photo: Action Images

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