Legendary TWTD reserves reporter Old Git is back and is missing all his regular second string pals.

TOWN RESERVES 1-3 DERBY COUNTY RESERVES
by OldGit@Reserves, still mourning Dale Roberts.

TEAMS: Pullen...bye,bye, then sort of three/four at the back: Thin, full-beaked Scott Mitchell, on the right; Big boss Hogg (sub Collins) and chubby Lee Chaffey in the middle and Matt Richards left wingback; In midfield: Neat but small Matt Bloomfield on the right - 'Matt' is the new 'Darren' but Bloomfield isn't the new Ambrose; Antonio Murray and Reuser (with a Will Young rug on top of his head) in the middle midfield and Ian Westlake on the left; And, up front, AA (sub Morrow) and exciting Dean Bowditch (sub Matt Robinson).

Burley returned tonight. Don't panic. It was only his fat nephew. You could tell he was in dispute with his club, too, like Uncle George, as he had his shirt out. With Hoddle, it looked suave. Fat Burley looked just burly.

Town lost again tonight but, again, don't panic; it doesn't matter. It's only the Reserves. The real team can still reach The play-offs.

Will 'young' James Pullen play in the derby match? Pullen played in this pre-derby Derby match. Inadequately. And has as much chance of facing Norwich as Will Young.

He was beaten (and he would've been after the Grimsby match, if we'd cornered him) in the first few seconds of this game, whilst I was still arranging my underclothing on my seat. No, I've put that wrongly: you know how, when you're old and fat, your big underpants wrap themselves around your groin? Logan would know and sympathise; pwah, he's got years of it ahead of him.

I was just re-arranging mine when there's a penalty, conceded when Derby's Murray was chopped by a young, slim Steve Bruce (surely a tautology) aka Chris Hogg, our broad-shouldered, flat-headed, no-necked captain despite being apparently only 12-years-old. Izale McLeod scored by shooting left, the first of his two goals. He was their star, a little bit Scottish, a big bit Izalian, thin and black - so we know that Izalia is down south, and we booed him for being argumentative and good. 0-1.

We had a Murray, Antonio, who sounds rather less Scottish and rather less Izalian, and perhaps a little more Italian. He was a cross between Sixto Peralta and a schoolboy Pict. He was (unnecessarily) intimidated by the stature of Craig Burley, who looks as if he may have eaten his uncle.

Izale McLeod's partner, Marcus Tudgay, looked a tad 'gay' in the current playground vernacular, ie rubbish, despite being almost famous. But he scored Derby's second, in the 25th minute, earning Marshall his place on Sunday, by heading in a cross, after a Burley free-kick, past Pullen's despairing left hand. With my despairing left hand, I hit my forehead. 0-2.

Eight minutes after half-time, McLeod, unchallenged, headed in a cross from Holmes on the left, after a brisk attack involving Turner, a blond Kanu, and hurly burly Burley. That was 0-3.

Pullen's off to the pub team. Derby were sponsored by Pedigree Chum. Pullen ain't got one, chum. He's back to where he was when he capitulated against Charlton, 18 months ago, letting in half a dozen.

At the other end of both the pitch and The Rainbow of Promise is Dean Bowditch, whose skinny body was reminiscent of Justin Miller but whose outsize head reminds me of that really gay boy in that Pop Idol band, gay in the Matthew Kelly sense. Twenty minutes from the end, Bowditch ran in 45 yards from the left and lifted the ball over Lee Camp's limp left ankle for the best goal of the night. He's nimble, surprisingly strong, and keen as Roy. He's a winner.

Armstrong's a loser. What harsh words to have to write about a temporary hero of yesteryear but who has come to resemble, more and more, a hamburger bun. Thankfully, he fell on his head at the end of the first half (though he was only subbed a minute into the second half, by a boy whose head clearly was muddled with Bowditch's in the head lockers, Sam Morrow. He was out of his depth as was Matt Robinson, who had 8 mins at the end instead of Bowditch, to whom we bow).

Like Brian Clough himself, I consider Brian Clough to be a genius. Sorry, this thought just suddenly swelled up in my head. Cloughie kidded a dozen dozy Derby dregs - they weren't the dregs from the very bottom of the cup: they were just that last mouthful that convinced you to sup no more: Kevin Hector, Alan Hinton, Colin Boulton; where are they now? All of them Independent Financial Advisers, I expect, poor lambs (geddit) - he kidded them into thinking that they could win what used to be called the Championship (then Cloughie bullied Notts Forest into winning as many European Championships as Man Utd have bought).

With the trundling tups turned out by Derby tonight, what heights could he have reached? Er, about a ram's shoulder height, I expect, as this was real medium-sized mediocrity we were faced with tonight, despite Derby gambolling gaily at the head of the Reserves Premier League, open brackets, South. Close brackets.

Derby County's Reserve's latest for : won 2, drawn 2 and lost 2 (Yes, I've had to look on the DCFC Reserves web-page. For you).

Most Derby players are called Lee: Lee Morris, Lee Grant, Lee Camp and Lee Holmes. And Rob Lee. And Ravenelli. Due to their Ongoing Cashflow Crisis Situation, they have sold everyone who wasn't called Lee, which is probably as good a way as any of choosing. We'll always sign anyone called David Johnson or Finidi George. Neither system's perfect.

Our Reserves were better than our first team, last year, largely because of The Darrens and Pablo. Clearly, the Reserves' Championship-winning captain wasn't considered responsible for that success: he's now fighting relegation from the Nationwide: Lusty Dusty Justy Miller/Leyton Orient.

(Perhaps BFJ, this new manager, muddled his Millers: very often, Tommy -who is surely playing on, gamely, with a broken hip: you watch him - looks about ready for Orient. I notice that Hartlepool are romping away, in his absence. I'd love to measure Tommy's inside leg: I'm sure that the numbers would not add up, a la Glenn Pennyfather, who used to wheel around the centre circle because one leg was shorter than t'other).

Now, our Reserves are as raw and unschooled - out of their depth - as Saddam's Reservists probably are (Please let me say that, Phil. I'm not anti-Iraqi. Most of my best friends are Iraqis. My first wife always said I was a bad dad. Mrs Oldgit and I often shuffle down to our local Iraqi takeaway, Kompliance Iz Us. Um, hence her operation, you may riposte, as she is only today out and about again. This bit is true).

This is the Yoof team bolstered by a couple of old uncles. Yes, Marytin Reuser was there, in a Chris Makin wig, makin up the numbers. As the match wore on, he took on water and sank closer and closer to the ground. Not that it was raining; perhaps he has trouble with what the ladies call 'water retention'. Perhaps he wears incontinence knickers and they fill up. He was playing with boys young enough to be his 'love-children'.

Perhaps it puts off the youngsters, being lumbered by old lumber like Armstrong and Reuser (who played in a Prince Harry syrup). Having to listen to anecdotes about scoring the winner at Wembley whilst trying to tackle Derby's grown-ups perhaps unsettled the young lads' eagerness, as they lay down and accepted defeat in the second half, even that butcher's dog, Matt Richards, who crosses with surprising strength..well, he's quite small, see? Perhaps he learnt that skill from Amir Karic. YES! gottimin

So, are these reports like Terry Wogan or AA Gill, all whimsy-pooh, or more mad Stuart Hall, or, even, quasi-arrogant Michael Winner with whom I have been compared...and that by a woman I was in bed with, so you can imagine the rest? ( Do you have to use a question mark at the end of the sentence, even when you've long since forgotten that there was a question in the sentence? It makes that last sentence look as though I'm asking you to guess whether I got my oats that night, when the answer was clearly not just, 'no', but 'lose four stone and then ask again, you man who looks like Liberace's mother').

Oh. The End.

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