Ian Plenderleith has a look at football in Lincolnshire in the light of a new book
The 2002-03 season was unusually eventful for Lincolnshire football. Grimsby were relegated from Division One, both Lincoln and Scunthorpe made the Division Three play-offs and League newcomers Boston struggled through their first year after having four points docked for financial irregularities, ultimately securing their status shortly before the season’s end.
Tony Butcher pays tribute to one of the east coast's scariest spots
Now what is the professional footballer’s favourite phrase to describe the joy of playing in the Premiership? “No disrespect to the likes of Grimsby but…” It isn’t just the name, it’s the ground, the small, cold, but above all old Blundell Park, the home of the Mariners since 1899.
Ian Plenderleith explores the murkier corners of the footballing web to discover Lincolnshire murder mysteries, Highland League replica kits and some straight shooting advice for referees
It’s midday at Sincil Bank on the opening day of the 1955-56 season. Lincoln City are away at Blackburn, so the ground is deserted. Except, that is, for a dead body lying in the middle of the pitch.
Harry Golighty talks about Scunthorpe Utd – the fans, the management and the club's ambitions
Brian Laws has had his controversial moments. How is he regarded by Scunthorpe fans?
You would struggle to find anyone in the town who would question his passion and commitment. I think most people feel he’s doing a decent job. There is always the promise in the air of “something might happen” and that’s a feeling we’ve not had in many years. His reworking of the English language has become terrace legend – I once asked him in a fanzine interview about heavyweight striker John Gayle’s disciplinary record. Laws replied: “Defenders go down like he’s absolutely pummelised them.” I could say more but I’m saving them for the book.
Phil Ball remembers Grimsby Town's 1979-80 season
There’s pleasure in purgatory. Thus speaks the Grimsby Town supporter, a strange creature stuck out in the wilds of north-east Lincolnshire, miles from anywhere, in a cut-off place with a cut-off mentality to boot. If you are handed the burden of following this club from an early age, you very soon learn that you are likely to spend the rest of your life having the piss taken out of you, a curious state of affairs which nevertheless hardens you and makes you all the more determined to face things out – to go into the world, as Val Doonican might have put it, walking straight and looking at your adversaries in the eye.