Written by Phil Ball,  later the author of "White Storm" and "Morbo", this affectionate tribute to Mariners legend Malcolm Partridge originally appeared in Issue Six of Sing When We're Fishing.

Malcolm Partridge arrived in the mid-seventies with a reasonable reputation.  Leicester City had bought him from Mansfield to partner the famous Frank Worthington but the relationship had never really blossomed.  Nevertheless he was, to a certain extent, a ‘name’ and Grimsby had had precious few of those during the sixties and seventies. 

He scored a few goals early on but soon dried up, as was the tradition in those days at Blundell Park.  I began to feel sorry for him because there was a hint of sophistication in his game that somehow never quite surfaced effectively.  Every now and then he would produce a pass of the most stunning perception, yet invariably seemed to follow it with a complimentary howler. 

He was like a contrast of two dramatic styles.  His poise and elegance was almost Shakespearian, yet the majority of his actions belonged to Brian Rix.  His appearance was vaguely bohemian and he wore his hair and clothes rather in the manner of a late sixties flower power San Franciscan.  On any occasion that one saw him hanging around town with his equally bohemian wife, he wore the same lackadaisical air which plagued him on the football pitch.  Indeed when he finished his career with Grimsby and moved on to Scunthorpe United (the club for Grimsby cast-offs) he remained in the area and opened up a record shop, not the usual business pursued by moribund footballers.

Not for him the rather predictable discount offers in the predictable and expensive sports shop that goes out of business when the player is semi-forgotten.  Rather the cardboard gloom of the second-hand record shop where penniless youths tout the albums of which they have long grown tired, the records that no one wants to buy.  Mr Partridge could be seen presiding over this Dickensian scene with all the commitment of a Victorian pawnbroker who has long since realised he is never going to make a fortune.

He was another of those players who challenged your nutterdom by constantly revealing himself to be a real person, a dull mortal just like yourself.  For example, during one particular season whilst performing as a central striker, he had gone through a lean patch and scored no goals.  The public was becoming a little impatient with his not delivering the goods and it was clear that Partridge’s confidence was beginning to wane.  Then happily for all concerned he scored a lovely header to win one particular game, but it was his reaction that was the most memorable.  He wheeled around from facing the celebrating supporters behind the goal and rushed to one side of the Barratt Stand, where a friend was obviously watching, and began to waggle his hand buoyantly in the manner of one who is miming the action of sinking various pints of ale.  Partridge tipped back his head and imagined the delights to come.

He had clearly bet his friend that he would score that day and break the ice of his cold spell.  It was hardly the gesture one normally sees players making and it broke down that rather healthier than healthy image the game tries to portray, particularly now.  The Milk Cup was a dreadful title.  I can remember when it was permissible to stage the Watneys Cup.  Footballers are tipplers like anyone else and it was refreshing to see someone being quite open about it.

As mentioned previously, Partridge’s style suggested quite strongly that he required some Dutch courage before facing the sarcastic hordes of the Barratt Stand.  They either drove him to drink or precipitated his taste for the stuff.  One only has to read, “This One’s On Me” by Jimmy Greaves to realise the matter is not entirely an amusing one.  George Best went the way of all boozers too.  Still, so much for the famous.  We all have our problems and usually get paid less for them too.

There are of course other players of this era who could conceivably warrant a mention but it may be stretching the subject a little too far.  Gary Moore, a dreadful centre forward bought from Sunderland whose mobility resembled that of a senile donkey; John Macey, a tiny little goalkeeper who found it extremely difficult to catch the ball; Harry Wainman, a more distinguished goalkeeper, who nevertheless on one occasion lined up for the second half at the wrong end before his opposite number had taken the field. 

This list is fairly substantial as befits a “little” side like Grimsby.  Supporting them makes you into a better person.  You begin to realise that true love is only nurtured by imperfection, and the expectations and demands you make of people gradually lessen, until you begin to appreciate what is really important about them.  But that’s a story that can wait.