SO my beloved Gas move into 2011 in the League One relegation zone while the likes of mighty Hartlepool and Exeter go charging up the table towards a play-off spot.
Many didn't see this coming when we started off the season full of hope and with the enthusiastic words of our former manager Paul Trollope and chairman Nick Higgs ringing in our ears.
To be fair, because of the nordic conditions we've suffered over the last few weeks we haven't really had the chance to improve our situation since Trolls departed and the cry went out for a new manager.
At the time we were told we would have to sit tight and wait for a new boss, while caretaker Darren Patterson guided us through the tricky Xmas fixture period.
Well, we haven't played one game since then, a situation which must be particularly frustrating for those of our players who WANT to play rather than spend an enforced long break with their feet up watching the telly.
But it leaves me thinking that this break in the action must have given the directors a chance to get their heads together, sift through the applications and interview suitable candidates.
It also means that we still have a substantial portion of our season still to go, plenty of time for a new man at the helm to get his feet under the table, consider the opportunities presented by the January transfer window, assess the current staff and set about planning our charge up the table.
After all, as far as I was aware this wasn't a trial period for Mr Patterson to prove his credentials for the post but just a spell for him to babysit the team until the right man was chosen.
So when WILL we see a new manager?
With tomorrow's resumption of hostilities at an in-form MK Dons, followed by a tough three pointer at home to our west country neighbours Plymouth, the decision can't come soon enough.
Sorry, Patto, and all that but we need someone in as soon as possible, and if you don't get the chance to forge your imprint on the team then that's just tough.
Let's face it, too. It wasn't all of Trolls making that we are in the position we currently find ourselves. And, if it was, what was Patto, our assistant boss, doing during the period we were losing 6-1 at Oxford, 4-0 at home to Southampton and 6-2 at Sheffield Wednesday. Cleaning the boots? Making the tea?
Our demise has been a collective responsibility and cannot JUST be put down to the manager.
So, however much Mr Patterson wishes to distance himself from the situation we find ourselves in, it just isn't possible.
He can talk all he wants of preaching a "more attacking style" - something which is bound to go down well with the fans - but surely when we've been conceding so often and have a goal difference sadly resembling an Australian cricket team's Fall of Wickets, it is at the back that we really need to concentrate.
I'm all for us charging up the field, all guns blazing, to try to outscore the opposition but it doesn't work that way.
We need an organiser, a fresh face and a new voice, to come in, look at what has gone wrong and create a team spirit and ethic to pull us through the tough times.
Seeing the same old face on the training ground - albeit with a more prominent role - isn't necessarily going to work the miracle that all Gas fans want to see in 2011.
Still, a new year starts tomorrow, and a new era for Bristol Rovers.
Let's hope it isn't just an extension to the annus horriblis that was 2010.
Friday 31 December 2010
Thursday 16 December 2010
End of an era
SO he's gone.
Our manager, Paul Trollope, has been axed from his post after five seasons at the helm.
It's a sad day, not because I feel he should have stayed but because he played such a vital role in restoring our League One status and giving us fabulous days out at the Millennium Stadium and Wembley.
But all good things come to an end and, lovely guy that Trolls is, he had been living on borrowed time.
If truth be told, he had been given far longer to get it right than other managers would have done with his recent record.
I don't think it was the fact we were losing too many games, but the manner of some of those defeats.
I can even put my finger on when it went wrong - it was after the brilliant 3-2 win at Southampton last year. Though we won the game there were still certain players who were regularly underperforming and needed to be dropped. We got away with that one because of the brilliant goalkeeping of our Danish Under 21 keeper Mikkel Andersen.
Trolls showed his loyalty and stuck by the under-performers, and the 5-1 defeat at Norwich the following weekend began a run of seven games without gaining a single point.
And since then there have been some horrendous results. Losing 5-0 at Orient last season and 3-0 at home to the same opposition this term was as bad as it got.
There were also 5-1 and 4-0 defeats at home to Southampton, a 6-2 loss at Sheffield Wednesday and a 6-1 reverse at Oxford.
In fact, that result and our FA Cup exit to non-league Darlington will have rankled with the board more than anything because of the lucrative revenue cup runs can bring.
The final straw came when we bowed out of the Paint Pot Cup on a penalty shootout to Exeter on Tuesday. We were a minute from winning that game, too, and I dare say he may have held on to the job for a few more weeks had we kept Exeter out.
But with the season effectively over by December 14 the board took what had become an inevitable decision.
Interestingly, some of the players went on Twitter to voice their disapproval. Fair enough, but if they had been putting in good performances they would be arguing from a far stronger standpoint.
The truth is on countless occasions - including last week's horrendous defeat in Sheffield which, judging by the highlights, could have been an even bigger thumping - Trolls was coming out with the same statements.
He kept talking about how the players were capable, how for some reason they didn't perform as they can, how they got a bit tired after a few weeks without any games and how they would now have to bounce back. He said he had explained to them what he wanted them to do but they hadn't carried out those instructions.
Well, if a team isn't carrying out your instructions on a regular basis then really you have to ask why not? If those players were so keen on holding on to their manager how could they capitulate in such gutless fashion on so many occasions?
I know a few managers who wouldn't have been so understanding of these "capable" players who, for some reason, didn't carry out their instructions.
Now, defenders of Trolls say that he has had his playing budget slashed and that the board haven't backed him.
I am not sure I hold with that statement.
From what I can see he was given a budget that enabled him to attract the likes of the highly rated Will Hoskins to the club, while also signing Wayne Brown from Fulham and Gary Sawyer from Plymouth. All, he said, were Championship-class players.
Unfortunately very few of the signings during his tenure came off.
Ricky Lambert, Jo Kuffour, Hoskins, yes.
Carl Regan and Jeff Hughes? The jury is still out.
But Dominic Blizzard, Darryl Duffy, Mark Wright and Andy Williams certainly didn't come close to justifying the big build-up they were given.
He was also given free rein at the start of the season, emerging from under the wing of father figure Lennie Lawrence and allowed to build his own backroom staff.
To my mind, not many managers at this level could ask for more.
Still, I would like to thank Paul Trollope for giving it a real go, adding a play-off final triumph and Paint Pot final to his CV and giving us a wonderful, rollercoaster ride which began with the joyous highs of the 2006-07 season and continued with a fabulous run to the quarter-finals of the FA Cup.
Perhaps, when he looks back, he may feel that some of the players in which he invested so much faith and loyalty didn't return the favour.
It is a tough lesson to learn in the dog-eats-dog world of management but I hope he takes it on the chin and moves on to bigger and better things.
What next for Rovers?
Well, I think they must forget about the tracksuit manager and look beyond the glorified coach.
They need a proper manager, who knows about the psychology of the game, how to get the very best out of average players and who has good contacts throughout the football world while having a strategy to develop the youth side of the game.
I keep hearing about former players getting their first leg up, the Andy Tillsons and Marcus Stewarts of this world.
But the Gas are in a relegation fight (despite what PT maintained on Monday) and need someone who has already done some of the hard yards, who has made mistakes and learnt from them. Someone who is the next stage on from Trolls.
Geraint Williams and Chris Coleman are two such people that spring to mind.
Whatever happens, it's an interesting time to be a Gashead.
Our manager, Paul Trollope, has been axed from his post after five seasons at the helm.
It's a sad day, not because I feel he should have stayed but because he played such a vital role in restoring our League One status and giving us fabulous days out at the Millennium Stadium and Wembley.
But all good things come to an end and, lovely guy that Trolls is, he had been living on borrowed time.
If truth be told, he had been given far longer to get it right than other managers would have done with his recent record.
I don't think it was the fact we were losing too many games, but the manner of some of those defeats.
I can even put my finger on when it went wrong - it was after the brilliant 3-2 win at Southampton last year. Though we won the game there were still certain players who were regularly underperforming and needed to be dropped. We got away with that one because of the brilliant goalkeeping of our Danish Under 21 keeper Mikkel Andersen.
Trolls showed his loyalty and stuck by the under-performers, and the 5-1 defeat at Norwich the following weekend began a run of seven games without gaining a single point.
And since then there have been some horrendous results. Losing 5-0 at Orient last season and 3-0 at home to the same opposition this term was as bad as it got.
There were also 5-1 and 4-0 defeats at home to Southampton, a 6-2 loss at Sheffield Wednesday and a 6-1 reverse at Oxford.
In fact, that result and our FA Cup exit to non-league Darlington will have rankled with the board more than anything because of the lucrative revenue cup runs can bring.
The final straw came when we bowed out of the Paint Pot Cup on a penalty shootout to Exeter on Tuesday. We were a minute from winning that game, too, and I dare say he may have held on to the job for a few more weeks had we kept Exeter out.
But with the season effectively over by December 14 the board took what had become an inevitable decision.
Interestingly, some of the players went on Twitter to voice their disapproval. Fair enough, but if they had been putting in good performances they would be arguing from a far stronger standpoint.
The truth is on countless occasions - including last week's horrendous defeat in Sheffield which, judging by the highlights, could have been an even bigger thumping - Trolls was coming out with the same statements.
He kept talking about how the players were capable, how for some reason they didn't perform as they can, how they got a bit tired after a few weeks without any games and how they would now have to bounce back. He said he had explained to them what he wanted them to do but they hadn't carried out those instructions.
Well, if a team isn't carrying out your instructions on a regular basis then really you have to ask why not? If those players were so keen on holding on to their manager how could they capitulate in such gutless fashion on so many occasions?
I know a few managers who wouldn't have been so understanding of these "capable" players who, for some reason, didn't carry out their instructions.
Now, defenders of Trolls say that he has had his playing budget slashed and that the board haven't backed him.
I am not sure I hold with that statement.
From what I can see he was given a budget that enabled him to attract the likes of the highly rated Will Hoskins to the club, while also signing Wayne Brown from Fulham and Gary Sawyer from Plymouth. All, he said, were Championship-class players.
Unfortunately very few of the signings during his tenure came off.
Ricky Lambert, Jo Kuffour, Hoskins, yes.
Carl Regan and Jeff Hughes? The jury is still out.
But Dominic Blizzard, Darryl Duffy, Mark Wright and Andy Williams certainly didn't come close to justifying the big build-up they were given.
He was also given free rein at the start of the season, emerging from under the wing of father figure Lennie Lawrence and allowed to build his own backroom staff.
To my mind, not many managers at this level could ask for more.
Still, I would like to thank Paul Trollope for giving it a real go, adding a play-off final triumph and Paint Pot final to his CV and giving us a wonderful, rollercoaster ride which began with the joyous highs of the 2006-07 season and continued with a fabulous run to the quarter-finals of the FA Cup.
Perhaps, when he looks back, he may feel that some of the players in which he invested so much faith and loyalty didn't return the favour.
It is a tough lesson to learn in the dog-eats-dog world of management but I hope he takes it on the chin and moves on to bigger and better things.
What next for Rovers?
Well, I think they must forget about the tracksuit manager and look beyond the glorified coach.
They need a proper manager, who knows about the psychology of the game, how to get the very best out of average players and who has good contacts throughout the football world while having a strategy to develop the youth side of the game.
I keep hearing about former players getting their first leg up, the Andy Tillsons and Marcus Stewarts of this world.
But the Gas are in a relegation fight (despite what PT maintained on Monday) and need someone who has already done some of the hard yards, who has made mistakes and learnt from them. Someone who is the next stage on from Trolls.
Geraint Williams and Chris Coleman are two such people that spring to mind.
Whatever happens, it's an interesting time to be a Gashead.
Monday 13 December 2010
Owls of agony
I'VE started a second job, just to make ends meet.
It's on the sports desk of a red-top national daily and everything has been going well.
The blokes are all down-to-earth, decent sports addicts and the banter is first class.
For example, they have taken to calling the tough-as-teak veteran journo sat next to me "Avram".
Apparently, he was watching Match of the Day with his grandkids the other day, and one of them turned to him when the camera focused on the West Ham dugout and said, "what are you doing there, Grandad?"
Of course, the man on the screen was grumpy Hammers manager Avram Grant.
The boss is a Manchester United fan from, wait for it, Manchester.
There is also the obligatory Saints fan a couple of seats down.
They have shown me a lot of respect since I've been there.
Until yesterday.
That was when the chirpy Cockney wide boy across the desk raised the inevitable question: "Who's your team then?"
I thought about lying, telling them that I had a deep affinity for the Red Devils going back to the age of seven.
Or maybe that I'd been a lifelong follower of Barcelona, ever since a memorable holiday in Spain.
But I'm not very good at lying. Think the bloke would have noticed.
My face had gone red, my hands were shaking and I was doodling nervously on a piece of paper.
Into my collar I muttered, "Bristol Rovers".
"Oh dear," came the pittying reply.
Now, in the past I would have puffed my chest out, looked him in the eye and replied in a firm, confident manner.
But recently that pride has been diminished somewhat.
I don't like being pitied.
And I've normally had a good response, have been able to protest that my team at least gave all they had and punched above their weight on occasions.
In all honesty, I can't say that now.
A 6-1 defeat at League Two Oxford, a 3-0 loss at home to seasoned strugglers Orient, and a 2-1 exit to non-league Darlington in the first round of the FA Cup.
Saturday's result, though, was the final straw.
Former big northern club whose best days have long gone 6, Clueless Shambles 2.
What made it worse was that Sheffield Wednesday fans had been describing us as a "Nobody club" on their message boards all week.
It had infuriated a fair few of our supporters, who had promised to sing their hearts out at Hillsborough to let them know exactly who we were.
And they expected our beloved Gas to play their hearts out in response.
After all, it's the Rovers way.
Or not.
In fairness, despite our mediocre position in the league table 1,500 fans turned up.
They had about 10 minutes to cheer, with the Gas having taken an early lead through our one shining star, Will Hoskins.
After that? By all accounts, diabolical.
We conceded four in the first 32 minutes and ended up being relieved to have only let in six.
I saw the highlights on the Football League Show. Absolutely embarrassing.
I've always wanted the Gas to make headlines, but not in this way.
And despite our many years of plumbing the depths of the Football League's basement I can rarely remember being so ashamed of my allegiance.
But that is how I feel today. Ashamed.
We are told we have dispensed with quantity to bring in quality players.
And in fairness, I've been pretty impressed with the likes of Hoskins and Wayne Brown.
But a team has nothing unless it has a bit of fight, a bit of bottle, a team ethic which says we will fight for the cause to our last breath.
I cast around our very competitive division and look at sides who, on paper, have not got as much going for them as us.
Tranmere, run on a shoestring with a bunch of kids making up their team.
Brentford, playing at a ground as run down as ours and boasting very few players we would covet.
Orient, as I've said before little club and serial relegation fighters.
Exeter, equally small, with few players to strike fear into the hearts of the opposition.
All above us now as we sit perilously in the bottom four of League One for the first time. Each with a manager who is getting more out of his team than its parts would suggest.
Our manager Paul Trollope said we could only judge things after 10-12 games when the table would start to sort itself out.
Well, it is doing that now - so is this our true position?
And, if not, how have we got to this situation?
The odd thrashing can be put down to a blip, a bad day at the office, an opponent that has just too much class and spending power . . .
But 5-0, 3-0, 6-1, 6-2, 4-0, 0-3, 6-2 - All in the space of a single year?
With a team largely put together by a manager who claims to have identified Championship class players capable of getting us into the play-offs.
I'm sorry, but however thankful everyone is for Mr Trollope's efforts, his unstinting hard work and the way he delivered us out of the black hole of League Two while giving us two big days out to savour at Wembley and the Millennium Stadium, it has to be plain that he has lost his way.
And for all the brave statements, the urging of the players to "bounce back" which seems to come every fortnight, and the bullish assertion that "the group" is capable and that spirit is still high, it is now plainly evident he has failed.
And failed miserably.
I'm sorry Paul, but it is time to go, and even a win in the Paint Pot tomorrow won't gloss over the evidence...
It's on the sports desk of a red-top national daily and everything has been going well.
The blokes are all down-to-earth, decent sports addicts and the banter is first class.
For example, they have taken to calling the tough-as-teak veteran journo sat next to me "Avram".
Apparently, he was watching Match of the Day with his grandkids the other day, and one of them turned to him when the camera focused on the West Ham dugout and said, "what are you doing there, Grandad?"
Of course, the man on the screen was grumpy Hammers manager Avram Grant.
The boss is a Manchester United fan from, wait for it, Manchester.
There is also the obligatory Saints fan a couple of seats down.
They have shown me a lot of respect since I've been there.
Until yesterday.
That was when the chirpy Cockney wide boy across the desk raised the inevitable question: "Who's your team then?"
I thought about lying, telling them that I had a deep affinity for the Red Devils going back to the age of seven.
Or maybe that I'd been a lifelong follower of Barcelona, ever since a memorable holiday in Spain.
But I'm not very good at lying. Think the bloke would have noticed.
My face had gone red, my hands were shaking and I was doodling nervously on a piece of paper.
Into my collar I muttered, "Bristol Rovers".
"Oh dear," came the pittying reply.
Now, in the past I would have puffed my chest out, looked him in the eye and replied in a firm, confident manner.
But recently that pride has been diminished somewhat.
I don't like being pitied.
And I've normally had a good response, have been able to protest that my team at least gave all they had and punched above their weight on occasions.
In all honesty, I can't say that now.
A 6-1 defeat at League Two Oxford, a 3-0 loss at home to seasoned strugglers Orient, and a 2-1 exit to non-league Darlington in the first round of the FA Cup.
Saturday's result, though, was the final straw.
Former big northern club whose best days have long gone 6, Clueless Shambles 2.
What made it worse was that Sheffield Wednesday fans had been describing us as a "Nobody club" on their message boards all week.
It had infuriated a fair few of our supporters, who had promised to sing their hearts out at Hillsborough to let them know exactly who we were.
And they expected our beloved Gas to play their hearts out in response.
After all, it's the Rovers way.
Or not.
In fairness, despite our mediocre position in the league table 1,500 fans turned up.
They had about 10 minutes to cheer, with the Gas having taken an early lead through our one shining star, Will Hoskins.
After that? By all accounts, diabolical.
We conceded four in the first 32 minutes and ended up being relieved to have only let in six.
I saw the highlights on the Football League Show. Absolutely embarrassing.
I've always wanted the Gas to make headlines, but not in this way.
And despite our many years of plumbing the depths of the Football League's basement I can rarely remember being so ashamed of my allegiance.
But that is how I feel today. Ashamed.
We are told we have dispensed with quantity to bring in quality players.
And in fairness, I've been pretty impressed with the likes of Hoskins and Wayne Brown.
But a team has nothing unless it has a bit of fight, a bit of bottle, a team ethic which says we will fight for the cause to our last breath.
I cast around our very competitive division and look at sides who, on paper, have not got as much going for them as us.
Tranmere, run on a shoestring with a bunch of kids making up their team.
Brentford, playing at a ground as run down as ours and boasting very few players we would covet.
Orient, as I've said before little club and serial relegation fighters.
Exeter, equally small, with few players to strike fear into the hearts of the opposition.
All above us now as we sit perilously in the bottom four of League One for the first time. Each with a manager who is getting more out of his team than its parts would suggest.
Our manager Paul Trollope said we could only judge things after 10-12 games when the table would start to sort itself out.
Well, it is doing that now - so is this our true position?
And, if not, how have we got to this situation?
The odd thrashing can be put down to a blip, a bad day at the office, an opponent that has just too much class and spending power . . .
But 5-0, 3-0, 6-1, 6-2, 4-0, 0-3, 6-2 - All in the space of a single year?
With a team largely put together by a manager who claims to have identified Championship class players capable of getting us into the play-offs.
I'm sorry, but however thankful everyone is for Mr Trollope's efforts, his unstinting hard work and the way he delivered us out of the black hole of League Two while giving us two big days out to savour at Wembley and the Millennium Stadium, it has to be plain that he has lost his way.
And for all the brave statements, the urging of the players to "bounce back" which seems to come every fortnight, and the bullish assertion that "the group" is capable and that spirit is still high, it is now plainly evident he has failed.
And failed miserably.
I'm sorry Paul, but it is time to go, and even a win in the Paint Pot tomorrow won't gloss over the evidence...
Thursday 2 December 2010
Snow business
Gutted.
As a Gashead working away from home, you have to be careful how to choose your holidays.
I studied the fixture list with great care before deciding to take a couple of weeks off.
It coincided with our home game against Exeter City in the Paint Pot Trophy and a crucial league clash against Bournemouth at the Mem.
I thought I had chosen well.
But the weather had different ideas.
A Siberian cold snap at the end of November meant the Exeter game fell by the wayside, and knowing the state of the Memorial Ground it is unlikely we'll see action in the league on Saturday either.
When the Exeter game was called off I must admit I was a bit peeved.
Standing outside there was barely a hint of snow and the temperature seemed to have risen nicely.
Watching the TV news and stories of cars getting stuck in 6ft drifts in Scotland and the North East of England didn't make me feel any better.
How on earth have we had to cancel a match when it looks like we've got off lightly?
Watching West Ham v Manchester United in the Carling Cup, played in a near blizzard, didn't raise my spirits much, but I am powerless to affect the outcome.
Some may wonder why I would wish to stand on crumbling terraces in sub-zero temperatures for almost two hours anyway.
But that's what real football supporters do, and there is a kind of masochistic pleasure in stamping your feet to take the numbness out of your toes and cradling your hands around a warm cup of bovril, having paid £18 for this eagerly anticipated night out.
No doubt I sound like Ron Manager and his "Jumpers for Goalposts" diatribes from the Fast Show, but I have fond memories of standing around in blizzard conditions cheering on the Gas.
I particularly recall one famous FA Cup fifth round tie against Ipswich Town when the snow pelted down, covering the Eastville pitch in a carpet of white.
"Playing with an orange ball in the snow? Marvellous," as Ron would say.
We gave a really good account of ourselves and but for a dodgy linesman would have won the game 3-2. Bobby Gould got through on goal, having been played on-side by a deflection by an opposition defender, and fired home the winner - only for the goal to be disallowed for offside.
Cracking game, though, and great atmosphere.
That was a very good Ipswich side with the likes of Paul Mariner, Mick Mills and George Burley in their side and managed by Bobby Robson. Unfortunately we lost the replay 3-0 and they went on to beat Arsenal 1-0 in the final.
I'm not sure if you would see a game like that these days. The pitch was pretty icy in the shadow of the North Stand, and some bright health and safety executive would definitely have stepped in to deem it unplayable. Plus the fact, I'm sure it wasn't easy for us fans to keep our footing in treacherous conditions on the pavements surrounding the ground.
Still if the worst happens and Saturday's game is called off I guess I still have the consolation that the Second Test in Adelaide won't be affected by similar problems. I'll probably have to pull an all-nighter to get my sports fix for the week.
Mind you, I am still praying a sudden thaw will save the game against the Cherries and I can risk pneumonia with the other 5,000-odd souls brave enough to go along.
As a Gashead working away from home, you have to be careful how to choose your holidays.
I studied the fixture list with great care before deciding to take a couple of weeks off.
It coincided with our home game against Exeter City in the Paint Pot Trophy and a crucial league clash against Bournemouth at the Mem.
I thought I had chosen well.
But the weather had different ideas.
A Siberian cold snap at the end of November meant the Exeter game fell by the wayside, and knowing the state of the Memorial Ground it is unlikely we'll see action in the league on Saturday either.
When the Exeter game was called off I must admit I was a bit peeved.
Standing outside there was barely a hint of snow and the temperature seemed to have risen nicely.
Watching the TV news and stories of cars getting stuck in 6ft drifts in Scotland and the North East of England didn't make me feel any better.
How on earth have we had to cancel a match when it looks like we've got off lightly?
Watching West Ham v Manchester United in the Carling Cup, played in a near blizzard, didn't raise my spirits much, but I am powerless to affect the outcome.
Some may wonder why I would wish to stand on crumbling terraces in sub-zero temperatures for almost two hours anyway.
But that's what real football supporters do, and there is a kind of masochistic pleasure in stamping your feet to take the numbness out of your toes and cradling your hands around a warm cup of bovril, having paid £18 for this eagerly anticipated night out.
No doubt I sound like Ron Manager and his "Jumpers for Goalposts" diatribes from the Fast Show, but I have fond memories of standing around in blizzard conditions cheering on the Gas.
I particularly recall one famous FA Cup fifth round tie against Ipswich Town when the snow pelted down, covering the Eastville pitch in a carpet of white.
"Playing with an orange ball in the snow? Marvellous," as Ron would say.
We gave a really good account of ourselves and but for a dodgy linesman would have won the game 3-2. Bobby Gould got through on goal, having been played on-side by a deflection by an opposition defender, and fired home the winner - only for the goal to be disallowed for offside.
Cracking game, though, and great atmosphere.
That was a very good Ipswich side with the likes of Paul Mariner, Mick Mills and George Burley in their side and managed by Bobby Robson. Unfortunately we lost the replay 3-0 and they went on to beat Arsenal 1-0 in the final.
I'm not sure if you would see a game like that these days. The pitch was pretty icy in the shadow of the North Stand, and some bright health and safety executive would definitely have stepped in to deem it unplayable. Plus the fact, I'm sure it wasn't easy for us fans to keep our footing in treacherous conditions on the pavements surrounding the ground.
Still if the worst happens and Saturday's game is called off I guess I still have the consolation that the Second Test in Adelaide won't be affected by similar problems. I'll probably have to pull an all-nighter to get my sports fix for the week.
Mind you, I am still praying a sudden thaw will save the game against the Cherries and I can risk pneumonia with the other 5,000-odd souls brave enough to go along.
Thursday 25 November 2010
An unreserved apology
I am not a fully-trained football coach.
I am not in charge of a small squad of reasonably decent players.
I am not, week in week out, in fear that I will lose my job if the people under my charge aren't at their best for 90 minutes.
And it is with great humility and respect that I get down on bended knee and say: "Sorry, and well done, Paul Trollope".
From previous posts my reader will realise that I am not the greatest fan of the manager of my beloved Gas.
To be honest, I have been particularly underwhelmed by some of his achievements this year.
Our 3-0 home defeat to Orient was the lowest of plenty of low points, and I must admit I actually posted on the Gas website that I feared for our fate at the Valley.
But, when Rovers had their backs to the wall with a growing injury and suspension crisis, I can do nothing but praise the person in charge to get us a point from each of our tough away games against league leaders Brighton and second-placed Charlton.
After listening to the game at the Valley on the radio all I can say is, "Respect, PT, for a job well done".
It seems our team was impeccably organised and, though we had goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen and our back four to thank for keeping out the opposition, perhaps we earned our luck.
Final score: South London club with a Premier League pedigree, good stadium and pretty decent budget 1,
Paupers of the West Country 1.
To be honest, the way Trolls has had to shuffle things around after suspensions to defenders Carl Regan and Byron Anthony, and injuries to Will Hoskins and Charlie Reece, would make even Tony Hancock shrink.
The deceased comedian once did a sketch where he decided to make some changes to a winning team at half time, put the smallest player in goal and switched the goalkeeper up front. The result was catastrophic.
And I honestly feared, and voiced my fears, that the idea of our left back going to right back, our left winger going to left back and a central midfielder being utilised on the right wing had "recipe for disaster" written all over it.
Though it sounds like we had some lucky breaks, it also sounds like our manager got his tactics pretty much spot on and was able to raise our team for the challenge.
Good work Trolls.
Mind you, we are still only 16th in the league and three points away from the relegation zone, so it is no time for backslapping.
And my big fear is that though Trolls is obviously a pretty decent coach tactically, particularly when it means playing on the break, most Gasheads are worried that our home performances don't match up.
We've got Bournemouth - promoted last season, flying high this, with no money at their disposal and having sold their top scorer to our nasty neighbours - at home in our next game, followed by an away trip to in-form Sheffield Wednesday and another home game against impressive Colchester.
It is going to take a lot more than backs-to-the-wall performances to get us what we need from those games - I would say five points at the very least.
Still, credit where credit is due. I still think Trolls is more coach than manager, but to get his players to rise to the occasion in their last two games suggests he certainly possesses some powers of motivation.
I am not in charge of a small squad of reasonably decent players.
I am not, week in week out, in fear that I will lose my job if the people under my charge aren't at their best for 90 minutes.
And it is with great humility and respect that I get down on bended knee and say: "Sorry, and well done, Paul Trollope".
From previous posts my reader will realise that I am not the greatest fan of the manager of my beloved Gas.
To be honest, I have been particularly underwhelmed by some of his achievements this year.
Our 3-0 home defeat to Orient was the lowest of plenty of low points, and I must admit I actually posted on the Gas website that I feared for our fate at the Valley.
But, when Rovers had their backs to the wall with a growing injury and suspension crisis, I can do nothing but praise the person in charge to get us a point from each of our tough away games against league leaders Brighton and second-placed Charlton.
After listening to the game at the Valley on the radio all I can say is, "Respect, PT, for a job well done".
It seems our team was impeccably organised and, though we had goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen and our back four to thank for keeping out the opposition, perhaps we earned our luck.
Final score: South London club with a Premier League pedigree, good stadium and pretty decent budget 1,
Paupers of the West Country 1.
To be honest, the way Trolls has had to shuffle things around after suspensions to defenders Carl Regan and Byron Anthony, and injuries to Will Hoskins and Charlie Reece, would make even Tony Hancock shrink.
The deceased comedian once did a sketch where he decided to make some changes to a winning team at half time, put the smallest player in goal and switched the goalkeeper up front. The result was catastrophic.
And I honestly feared, and voiced my fears, that the idea of our left back going to right back, our left winger going to left back and a central midfielder being utilised on the right wing had "recipe for disaster" written all over it.
Though it sounds like we had some lucky breaks, it also sounds like our manager got his tactics pretty much spot on and was able to raise our team for the challenge.
Good work Trolls.
Mind you, we are still only 16th in the league and three points away from the relegation zone, so it is no time for backslapping.
And my big fear is that though Trolls is obviously a pretty decent coach tactically, particularly when it means playing on the break, most Gasheads are worried that our home performances don't match up.
We've got Bournemouth - promoted last season, flying high this, with no money at their disposal and having sold their top scorer to our nasty neighbours - at home in our next game, followed by an away trip to in-form Sheffield Wednesday and another home game against impressive Colchester.
It is going to take a lot more than backs-to-the-wall performances to get us what we need from those games - I would say five points at the very least.
Still, credit where credit is due. I still think Trolls is more coach than manager, but to get his players to rise to the occasion in their last two games suggests he certainly possesses some powers of motivation.
Saturday 20 November 2010
Taking one for the team
South Coast town with running track for a stadium 2
Massive West Country Metropolis 2
FORGET the coaching skills of Paul Trollope, the never-say-die attitude of the players, and the enormous presence of goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen arriving in the penalty area to help us grab a point in the dying embers of our clash with league leaders Brighton.
Today's result was down to one thing, and one thing only. Me.
That's right.
Yes, I know I wasn't there, shouting my lungs out.
Yes, it's true, I didn't do a cloak-and-dagger scouting trip and pass on my finding to Trolls.
No, I didn't slip some sleeping drug into the Brighton players tea.
What I did was far worse than that... an absolute crime to many.
But I did it for the best of reasons.
I took one for the team.
As my regular reader will know, we have a game in the office that is called Saturday Survivor.
We put a tenner in the pot and then each Saturday have to pick a team that MUST win for you to survive.
And I was down to the final three with a nice bundle sitting in the pot for the winner.
So who did I pick today? Brighton.
And why did I pick them? Because I was sure if I had money riding on it they wouldn't win.
How right it proved.
My office cohorts couldn't believe me.
"Rippers, you bet against your own team? That's low," shouted the boss man, a West Ham fan, from across the room.
There followed a mixture of jeers, which grew as the afternoon progressed.
We went 1-0 up through Byron Anthony and people started ribbing me about losing my cash.
I couldn't care a jot. I was just hoping my ploy would work and the Gas would hang on.
Then the second half and Brighton hit back. It was 1-1, then 2-1 to them and, inevitably, our transfer target of last season Chris Wood grabbed the second from the penalty spot.
"Yah, disgusting," people were shouting... "Betting against your own team, pah."
I was ostricised, alienated...
Then laughter erupted around the room. With seconds to go we equalised through an own goal.
"Serves you right," the hordes were saying.
But what they couldn't see was the big grin spreading across my face.
A tenner? A possible £120 jackpot? Pah.
I gave it all up to get the Rovers a result.
Paul Trollope, I hope that cheques in the post!
Massive West Country Metropolis 2
FORGET the coaching skills of Paul Trollope, the never-say-die attitude of the players, and the enormous presence of goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen arriving in the penalty area to help us grab a point in the dying embers of our clash with league leaders Brighton.
Today's result was down to one thing, and one thing only. Me.
That's right.
Yes, I know I wasn't there, shouting my lungs out.
Yes, it's true, I didn't do a cloak-and-dagger scouting trip and pass on my finding to Trolls.
No, I didn't slip some sleeping drug into the Brighton players tea.
What I did was far worse than that... an absolute crime to many.
But I did it for the best of reasons.
I took one for the team.
As my regular reader will know, we have a game in the office that is called Saturday Survivor.
We put a tenner in the pot and then each Saturday have to pick a team that MUST win for you to survive.
And I was down to the final three with a nice bundle sitting in the pot for the winner.
So who did I pick today? Brighton.
And why did I pick them? Because I was sure if I had money riding on it they wouldn't win.
How right it proved.
My office cohorts couldn't believe me.
"Rippers, you bet against your own team? That's low," shouted the boss man, a West Ham fan, from across the room.
There followed a mixture of jeers, which grew as the afternoon progressed.
We went 1-0 up through Byron Anthony and people started ribbing me about losing my cash.
I couldn't care a jot. I was just hoping my ploy would work and the Gas would hang on.
Then the second half and Brighton hit back. It was 1-1, then 2-1 to them and, inevitably, our transfer target of last season Chris Wood grabbed the second from the penalty spot.
"Yah, disgusting," people were shouting... "Betting against your own team, pah."
I was ostricised, alienated...
Then laughter erupted around the room. With seconds to go we equalised through an own goal.
"Serves you right," the hordes were saying.
But what they couldn't see was the big grin spreading across my face.
A tenner? A possible £120 jackpot? Pah.
I gave it all up to get the Rovers a result.
Paul Trollope, I hope that cheques in the post!
Friday 19 November 2010
Do me a favour!
YOU have to love football manager-speak but must take it with a very large pinch of salt.
Our coach at the Gas is an absolute expert at it - I reckon he must have had a few lessons during those famous coaching courses he went on to get his badges.
Now Paul Trollope is a very likeable guy and this is not intended as a slight on his person.
But, like estate agents, managers have to be incredibly creative when talking to the media, particularly when their fortunes have taken a pretty dismal turn for the worse. They have to do it for the fans, and also for their own players.
Tomorrow my beloved Gas travel to Brighton, a team who have taken the division by storm this season, are storming umpteen points clear, scoring goals for fun and have a high-profile manager in Gus Poyet.
Not only that but they have just signed a New Zealand international striker called Chris Wood, who we chased for a year but failed to get on board.
Meanwhile, we are down to three defenders, with Carl Regan suspended and James Tunnicliffe unable to play because parent-club Brighton have barred him as a condition of his loan.
Then we are missing our best player Will Hoskins through injury, while another striker is doubtful through injury. Actually, we only have three senior strikers as it is so that leaves us with one.
So what does Mr Trollope think of this? Obviously, he can't come out and say we are up sewage alley without any oars, but I never expected his latest assertion.
If he has a spin doctor working behind the scenes that person makes the work of Alastair Campbell pale into insignificance.
"The goals that we have conceded over the last few games means that a reshuffle and a freshen up might do us a favour," he says.
"Some of our players are capable of playing in a number of positions and we know we have to do better defensively. We have to do better - maybe a reshuffle will spark that."
Wow, really? You mean chucking a load of kids in who have had barely any game time - and when they have they've managed to lose 4-0 to the likes of Wycombe Reserves - are going to help us overturn the league leaders?
Well, I think I'll rush down the bookies now and put some money on a Rovers win then.
Don't you just love it when your manager has some aces up his sleeve?
Our coach at the Gas is an absolute expert at it - I reckon he must have had a few lessons during those famous coaching courses he went on to get his badges.
Now Paul Trollope is a very likeable guy and this is not intended as a slight on his person.
But, like estate agents, managers have to be incredibly creative when talking to the media, particularly when their fortunes have taken a pretty dismal turn for the worse. They have to do it for the fans, and also for their own players.
Tomorrow my beloved Gas travel to Brighton, a team who have taken the division by storm this season, are storming umpteen points clear, scoring goals for fun and have a high-profile manager in Gus Poyet.
Not only that but they have just signed a New Zealand international striker called Chris Wood, who we chased for a year but failed to get on board.
Meanwhile, we are down to three defenders, with Carl Regan suspended and James Tunnicliffe unable to play because parent-club Brighton have barred him as a condition of his loan.
Then we are missing our best player Will Hoskins through injury, while another striker is doubtful through injury. Actually, we only have three senior strikers as it is so that leaves us with one.
So what does Mr Trollope think of this? Obviously, he can't come out and say we are up sewage alley without any oars, but I never expected his latest assertion.
If he has a spin doctor working behind the scenes that person makes the work of Alastair Campbell pale into insignificance.
"The goals that we have conceded over the last few games means that a reshuffle and a freshen up might do us a favour," he says.
"Some of our players are capable of playing in a number of positions and we know we have to do better defensively. We have to do better - maybe a reshuffle will spark that."
Wow, really? You mean chucking a load of kids in who have had barely any game time - and when they have they've managed to lose 4-0 to the likes of Wycombe Reserves - are going to help us overturn the league leaders?
Well, I think I'll rush down the bookies now and put some money on a Rovers win then.
Don't you just love it when your manager has some aces up his sleeve?
Monday 15 November 2010
Welcome to the Nut House
YOU'RE 3-0 down at home to a team who shouldn't be fit to lace your boots and there is five minutes to go.
Your fans start to stream away from the ground, muttering under their breath about how abysmal you are.
Yet two weeks ago that same group of fans were braying about the good run of form they were on and that an end-of-season celebration was looking extremely likely.
But that's enough about Chelsea...
Meanwhile, 200 miles away in a little corner of the West Country known as the Mem, the 5,000 supporters who paid their £18 to stand on decrepit terraces, watching awful football served up by their team as they slumped to a 3-0 defeat against the might of Leyton Orient, probably stayed to the bitter end.
I don't know, because unfortunately I wasn't there. The Saturday job wouldn't permit it.
Yet I've stood on those same terraces and watched the same sort of turgid dross for more than 90 minutes and can rarely say I haven't stayed to the final whistle. And rarely have I seen the people around me desert their posts either, if only because they wish to stay right to the end to vent their spleen at the players and coach who have so badly let them down.
Just like many other true football fans who support clubs that don't even register on the Premier League poseurs radar.
Welcome to lower league football.
Welcome to true dedication.
Welcome to the nuthouse where we Bristol Rovers fans congregate.
Earlier on Saturday we got another chance for national recognition.
A group of Gasheads took their place on the Sky Sports comedy show Soccer AM.
They certainly made some noise, belting out Goodnight Irene after being introduced.
Unfortunately when it came to kicking a football through a hole they were as inept as . . . well, the team they support I guess you could say.
The only difference, as far as I can see it, is that they managed to score twice, while Rovers only managed one shot on target a few hours later.
A brief description of the afternoon.
Rovers went 1-0 down after 20 minutes and I was pretty miffed.
Seven minutes later it was two, but a little voice inside my head was saying, "It's early enough. We can still turn this around and grab a famous victory."
Shortly afterwards our fullback Carl Regan was sent off for what sounds like a seriously bad challenge.
And all hope died with his dismissal.
Final Score: West Country wobblers 0 Club from a poor East London suburb run by a bloke more famous for managing snooker players 3
Terrible result.
Awful.
And with the next three games against the teams in the top three positions in the League, to my mind we're officially screwed.
So who is at fault?
The board for not investing in the team and blowing millions on a new stadium dream which appears to have been just an halucination?
The players for not being good enough?
Or the manager for not getting the best out of the talent available?
I would have to say it's probably a bit of all three.
So what can we do?
Well, unfortunately, until we find some mad, billionaire sugar daddy we won't be able to oust the board.
The players? Most of them are on good contracts, many of them are now injured or suspended, and the ones we could do with in the current situation have been sent out on loan.
The manager?
Well the argument some people give in support of sticking with Trolls is that
a. We could not afford anyone better and b. Anyone better wouldn't want to manage us.
And both these arguments are, I'm afraid, complete and utter nonsense.
I know this.
I know because as part of my job I have not only covered football teams in a far worse plight than Rovers find themselves in now, but spoken to experienced managers who have made a cast-iron case for why people would be queueing around the block if a vacancy came up.
(And for those who will want names: Peter Reid and Dennis Smith for starters)
The argument goes like this...
FACT ONE: A football career is a very short one. Most players who retire would love to continue in the job they love and, quite honestly, the only job they really know.
They aren't all as intelligent, lucid and camera friendly as Gary Lineker (as we witness on Sky Soccer Saturday every week - Dean Windass, anyone?) so won't walk into a career in the media.
So what do they do? They look to move into football management.
FACT TWO: There are ONLY 92 Football League jobs available as manager. Yes, you can become a number two, or the youth team coach, or the physio or, in rare circumstances, the director of football. But where do all these other ex-pros go to find a job in football?
FACT THREE: Will they care about the money? Unlikely.
What they want to do when they take on a job at, say, Bristol Rovers, or even worse a Lincoln City or Hereford, is make a name for themselves so that EVENTUALLY someone will spot them and offer them more lucrative employment higher up the league.
And most will set their sights on the very top, the Premiership.
Some of the biggest names in football have started from very modest roots.
And at least if you come to Bristol you have a nice city with a potentially big following of supporters.
And the key word here is potential.
Because it doesn't matter WHAT stadium you play in, or which players you have currently on your books. The better you can do in the most trying of circumstances, the more noticeable you will become to the big boys at the top of the tree.
So should Trollope stay or go?
I regret to say, as one who chanted his name from the rooftops after our Play-off triumph of three long years ago, I think his time has come.
He told us to judge the team's capability after 12 or so league games.
We have reached that target and are 15th with a string of tough fixtures to come.
We could be far lower.
We have scrambled a few results, like the 2-2 draw at Hartlepool and, though harsh, the draw with Carlisle. After all, they DID miss an injury time penalty.
We may have had a couple of decent performances, but the bad ones have far outweighed them - Peterborough, Southampton, Oxford, Darlington, Orient. And when we have been bad we've been B A D.
If Trolls does stay on I will continue to back the club, and hope and pray I am wrong about him.
But the one argument I will NEVER entertain is that Paul Trollope should stay as manager because we won't be able to attract anyone better.
Your fans start to stream away from the ground, muttering under their breath about how abysmal you are.
Yet two weeks ago that same group of fans were braying about the good run of form they were on and that an end-of-season celebration was looking extremely likely.
But that's enough about Chelsea...
Meanwhile, 200 miles away in a little corner of the West Country known as the Mem, the 5,000 supporters who paid their £18 to stand on decrepit terraces, watching awful football served up by their team as they slumped to a 3-0 defeat against the might of Leyton Orient, probably stayed to the bitter end.
I don't know, because unfortunately I wasn't there. The Saturday job wouldn't permit it.
Yet I've stood on those same terraces and watched the same sort of turgid dross for more than 90 minutes and can rarely say I haven't stayed to the final whistle. And rarely have I seen the people around me desert their posts either, if only because they wish to stay right to the end to vent their spleen at the players and coach who have so badly let them down.
Just like many other true football fans who support clubs that don't even register on the Premier League poseurs radar.
Welcome to lower league football.
Welcome to true dedication.
Welcome to the nuthouse where we Bristol Rovers fans congregate.
Earlier on Saturday we got another chance for national recognition.
A group of Gasheads took their place on the Sky Sports comedy show Soccer AM.
They certainly made some noise, belting out Goodnight Irene after being introduced.
Unfortunately when it came to kicking a football through a hole they were as inept as . . . well, the team they support I guess you could say.
The only difference, as far as I can see it, is that they managed to score twice, while Rovers only managed one shot on target a few hours later.
A brief description of the afternoon.
Rovers went 1-0 down after 20 minutes and I was pretty miffed.
Seven minutes later it was two, but a little voice inside my head was saying, "It's early enough. We can still turn this around and grab a famous victory."
Shortly afterwards our fullback Carl Regan was sent off for what sounds like a seriously bad challenge.
And all hope died with his dismissal.
Final Score: West Country wobblers 0 Club from a poor East London suburb run by a bloke more famous for managing snooker players 3
Terrible result.
Awful.
And with the next three games against the teams in the top three positions in the League, to my mind we're officially screwed.
So who is at fault?
The board for not investing in the team and blowing millions on a new stadium dream which appears to have been just an halucination?
The players for not being good enough?
Or the manager for not getting the best out of the talent available?
I would have to say it's probably a bit of all three.
So what can we do?
Well, unfortunately, until we find some mad, billionaire sugar daddy we won't be able to oust the board.
The players? Most of them are on good contracts, many of them are now injured or suspended, and the ones we could do with in the current situation have been sent out on loan.
The manager?
Well the argument some people give in support of sticking with Trolls is that
a. We could not afford anyone better and b. Anyone better wouldn't want to manage us.
And both these arguments are, I'm afraid, complete and utter nonsense.
I know this.
I know because as part of my job I have not only covered football teams in a far worse plight than Rovers find themselves in now, but spoken to experienced managers who have made a cast-iron case for why people would be queueing around the block if a vacancy came up.
(And for those who will want names: Peter Reid and Dennis Smith for starters)
The argument goes like this...
FACT ONE: A football career is a very short one. Most players who retire would love to continue in the job they love and, quite honestly, the only job they really know.
They aren't all as intelligent, lucid and camera friendly as Gary Lineker (as we witness on Sky Soccer Saturday every week - Dean Windass, anyone?) so won't walk into a career in the media.
So what do they do? They look to move into football management.
FACT TWO: There are ONLY 92 Football League jobs available as manager. Yes, you can become a number two, or the youth team coach, or the physio or, in rare circumstances, the director of football. But where do all these other ex-pros go to find a job in football?
FACT THREE: Will they care about the money? Unlikely.
What they want to do when they take on a job at, say, Bristol Rovers, or even worse a Lincoln City or Hereford, is make a name for themselves so that EVENTUALLY someone will spot them and offer them more lucrative employment higher up the league.
And most will set their sights on the very top, the Premiership.
Some of the biggest names in football have started from very modest roots.
And at least if you come to Bristol you have a nice city with a potentially big following of supporters.
And the key word here is potential.
Because it doesn't matter WHAT stadium you play in, or which players you have currently on your books. The better you can do in the most trying of circumstances, the more noticeable you will become to the big boys at the top of the tree.
So should Trollope stay or go?
I regret to say, as one who chanted his name from the rooftops after our Play-off triumph of three long years ago, I think his time has come.
He told us to judge the team's capability after 12 or so league games.
We have reached that target and are 15th with a string of tough fixtures to come.
We could be far lower.
We have scrambled a few results, like the 2-2 draw at Hartlepool and, though harsh, the draw with Carlisle. After all, they DID miss an injury time penalty.
We may have had a couple of decent performances, but the bad ones have far outweighed them - Peterborough, Southampton, Oxford, Darlington, Orient. And when we have been bad we've been B A D.
If Trolls does stay on I will continue to back the club, and hope and pray I am wrong about him.
But the one argument I will NEVER entertain is that Paul Trollope should stay as manager because we won't be able to attract anyone better.
Friday 12 November 2010
Wycombe high!
WHERE did that come from?
Just when we Gasheads were ready to lock ourselves in a dark room and not come out until the end of the season our beloved football team go and do something extraordinary.
Town in leafy Buckinghamshire 3 West Country wonders 6
No sooner have we been knocked out of the FA Cup by mighty non-league Darlington, losing our star striker Good Will Hoskins in the process, but we produce a goalfest of an away performance that had me checking and double checking the TV channels to make sure I had read it right.
Jo Kuffour who, until recently, looked like a dog chasing his tail rather than a prolific striker, suddenly found his shooting boots with his first-ever hat-trick, the much maligned Chris Lines scored an immaculate solo effort, Jeff Hughes smashed in a penalty and at the very end our young winger Ben Swallow came on to strike a screamer from 25 yards.
Oh happy days.
Wycombe beaten and we march on.
Of course, it's only in the Paint Pot trophy.
But a win is a win . . . and in our promotion season it was this same competition that launched us on a triumphant march all the way to two big finals.
That year we were the only team other than Chelsea to play at both Cardiff's Millennium Stadium and the new Wembley in the same year.
And though we lost a thrilling Paint Pot final 3-2 to Doncaster in front of 25,000 of our fans in Cardiff it gave us the belief to go on and secure a League Two play-off final day out and, ultimately, promotion to our current level.
So, all hail the Paint Pot.
I don't want to sound like a cliched football manager, but to be honest I would trade that result for three points in the league this weekend.
We certainly owe Orient one.
In the crest of our slump last season we were beaten 5-0 by them at Brisbane Road and it was, by all accounts, a completely abject performance.
Despite that, they went on to sack their manager - it seems to be a familiar theme. Rovers get beaten heavily, opposition give THEIR boss the boot.
Still, I will keep faith with our man in charge, Paul Trollope, for the moment.
And hope that he can inspire my beloved Gas to another fine win tomorrow.
Just when we Gasheads were ready to lock ourselves in a dark room and not come out until the end of the season our beloved football team go and do something extraordinary.
Town in leafy Buckinghamshire 3 West Country wonders 6
No sooner have we been knocked out of the FA Cup by mighty non-league Darlington, losing our star striker Good Will Hoskins in the process, but we produce a goalfest of an away performance that had me checking and double checking the TV channels to make sure I had read it right.
Jo Kuffour who, until recently, looked like a dog chasing his tail rather than a prolific striker, suddenly found his shooting boots with his first-ever hat-trick, the much maligned Chris Lines scored an immaculate solo effort, Jeff Hughes smashed in a penalty and at the very end our young winger Ben Swallow came on to strike a screamer from 25 yards.
Oh happy days.
Wycombe beaten and we march on.
Of course, it's only in the Paint Pot trophy.
But a win is a win . . . and in our promotion season it was this same competition that launched us on a triumphant march all the way to two big finals.
That year we were the only team other than Chelsea to play at both Cardiff's Millennium Stadium and the new Wembley in the same year.
And though we lost a thrilling Paint Pot final 3-2 to Doncaster in front of 25,000 of our fans in Cardiff it gave us the belief to go on and secure a League Two play-off final day out and, ultimately, promotion to our current level.
So, all hail the Paint Pot.
I don't want to sound like a cliched football manager, but to be honest I would trade that result for three points in the league this weekend.
We certainly owe Orient one.
In the crest of our slump last season we were beaten 5-0 by them at Brisbane Road and it was, by all accounts, a completely abject performance.
Despite that, they went on to sack their manager - it seems to be a familiar theme. Rovers get beaten heavily, opposition give THEIR boss the boot.
Still, I will keep faith with our man in charge, Paul Trollope, for the moment.
And hope that he can inspire my beloved Gas to another fine win tomorrow.
Monday 8 November 2010
Football, Bloody Hell!
The worst thing about being a supporter of a lowly, cash-strapped Football League side is that a kick in the unmentionables is always just around the corner.
As a Bristol Rovers fan they come fast and often.
Less than a month ago I was on a real high. Bristol City were rock bottom of the Championship and we were up to the lofty position of ninth in League One.
It actually seemed we were getting things right.
But at the time I wrote:
"As a Gashead you KNOW it can't last.
At some stage, you know, City will start winning games.
And at some stage, you fear, Rovers will start slipping backwards."
Slip backwards? At the moment we resemble an Italian tank on the Cresta Run.
Being beaten 3-1 by Plymouth Reserves in the League was bad enough, but on Saturday came another low.
Non-League club from the north east who used to have a bank robber as chairman 2,
Southern softies 1
We know all about giant killings. In fact, we have enjoyed quite a few ourselves in the past.
Only three seasons ago we went all the way to the quarter final of the world's most famous cup competition, beating Fulham and Southampton on the way.
But this abysmal reverse, on top of our 6-1 Carling Cup humiliation at League Two Oxford earlier in the season, has left me in the depths of despair.
It wasn't just a first round cup exit.
It was the fact that our most skillful player by a mile, Will Hoskins, picked up a ligament injury (which are pretty damn difficult to shake off) and won't be available for some time.
This weekend has left me with an awful feeling.
I can't see past Rovers slipping down the table alarmingly.
We have got a tough run of games coming up.
Today it's Wycombe away in the second round of the Paint Pot Cup - another team in a league below us but a team with a very good recent record against us - and on Saturday it is home to an improving Leyton Orient.
After that? High flying Brighton and Charlton away, Goal machines Bournemouth at home, the giants of Sheffield Wednesday away and Colchester, who've lost only once this season, at home. The pessimist in me - in the style of a European song contest judge - predicts Nil points from any of those games.
Our manager Paul Trollope's words have an empty ring about them today.
"We must bounce back," he says.
It reminds me of the bloke in Monty Python and the Holy Grail who is barring the way to one of the Knights.
They fight and every time the bloke loses a limb he tells the knight he isn't beaten and he's still going to battle on.
Eventually he has no arms and legs left and the knight passes him.
"Come back," shouts the limbless man, "I can still bite ya."
Still, I was determined to find some slither of hope in the grey that surrounds us, and I guess it is this.
Twice in recent years I have felt that all hope is gone, and a few days later I've had a pleasant surprise.
The first came on Boxing Day a few years ago when we drew 0-0 at home to Luton Town.
This is Luton Town who not only hadn't paid their players for months, were bottom of the league, and had been reduced to EIGHT men at the Mem. We couldn't beat eight men.
"That's it then, no hope for us this season, we're on our way down," I said.
Two days later we beat promotion chasing Carlisle 3-0 and I couldn't believe my eyes.
Fast forward to last season and I was about to go and see a Rovers team who had been revitalised after signing the experienced striker Paul Heffernan on loan from Doncaster.
Before Heff joined we had been absolutely abysmal.
I was just about to leave the house for our home game against a decent MK Dons side when I heard that Heff had been recalled and that we had cut short the ineffectual Darryl Duffy's loan to Carlisle to cover for him.
Oh rats. That's it then. We won't win another game this season and relegation is still a very real possibility, I thought.
What happened? We really got stuck in, won 1-0 and it was one of the best, fighting Rovers performances I've seen in a long time.
Oh how we need two of them right now.
A gutsy performance in the Paint Pot and a valuable win in the League.
If not, I'm afraid, it's going to be a long, cold winter ahead.
As a Bristol Rovers fan they come fast and often.
Less than a month ago I was on a real high. Bristol City were rock bottom of the Championship and we were up to the lofty position of ninth in League One.
It actually seemed we were getting things right.
But at the time I wrote:
"As a Gashead you KNOW it can't last.
At some stage, you know, City will start winning games.
And at some stage, you fear, Rovers will start slipping backwards."
Slip backwards? At the moment we resemble an Italian tank on the Cresta Run.
Being beaten 3-1 by Plymouth Reserves in the League was bad enough, but on Saturday came another low.
Non-League club from the north east who used to have a bank robber as chairman 2,
Southern softies 1
We know all about giant killings. In fact, we have enjoyed quite a few ourselves in the past.
Only three seasons ago we went all the way to the quarter final of the world's most famous cup competition, beating Fulham and Southampton on the way.
But this abysmal reverse, on top of our 6-1 Carling Cup humiliation at League Two Oxford earlier in the season, has left me in the depths of despair.
It wasn't just a first round cup exit.
It was the fact that our most skillful player by a mile, Will Hoskins, picked up a ligament injury (which are pretty damn difficult to shake off) and won't be available for some time.
This weekend has left me with an awful feeling.
I can't see past Rovers slipping down the table alarmingly.
We have got a tough run of games coming up.
Today it's Wycombe away in the second round of the Paint Pot Cup - another team in a league below us but a team with a very good recent record against us - and on Saturday it is home to an improving Leyton Orient.
After that? High flying Brighton and Charlton away, Goal machines Bournemouth at home, the giants of Sheffield Wednesday away and Colchester, who've lost only once this season, at home. The pessimist in me - in the style of a European song contest judge - predicts Nil points from any of those games.
Our manager Paul Trollope's words have an empty ring about them today.
"We must bounce back," he says.
It reminds me of the bloke in Monty Python and the Holy Grail who is barring the way to one of the Knights.
They fight and every time the bloke loses a limb he tells the knight he isn't beaten and he's still going to battle on.
Eventually he has no arms and legs left and the knight passes him.
"Come back," shouts the limbless man, "I can still bite ya."
Still, I was determined to find some slither of hope in the grey that surrounds us, and I guess it is this.
Twice in recent years I have felt that all hope is gone, and a few days later I've had a pleasant surprise.
The first came on Boxing Day a few years ago when we drew 0-0 at home to Luton Town.
This is Luton Town who not only hadn't paid their players for months, were bottom of the league, and had been reduced to EIGHT men at the Mem. We couldn't beat eight men.
"That's it then, no hope for us this season, we're on our way down," I said.
Two days later we beat promotion chasing Carlisle 3-0 and I couldn't believe my eyes.
Fast forward to last season and I was about to go and see a Rovers team who had been revitalised after signing the experienced striker Paul Heffernan on loan from Doncaster.
Before Heff joined we had been absolutely abysmal.
I was just about to leave the house for our home game against a decent MK Dons side when I heard that Heff had been recalled and that we had cut short the ineffectual Darryl Duffy's loan to Carlisle to cover for him.
Oh rats. That's it then. We won't win another game this season and relegation is still a very real possibility, I thought.
What happened? We really got stuck in, won 1-0 and it was one of the best, fighting Rovers performances I've seen in a long time.
Oh how we need two of them right now.
A gutsy performance in the Paint Pot and a valuable win in the League.
If not, I'm afraid, it's going to be a long, cold winter ahead.
Friday 5 November 2010
Cornish pasting
I COULDN'T believe it.
For one, strange, unfathomable, reason I actually FORGOT the Gas were playing on Tuesday.
Not all of Tuesday, mind.
It was possibly the first thing I thought of when I got up in the morning.
Rovers.
Away to Plymouth.
Desperately need something from the game after throwing away a couple of points at home to Carlisle on Saturday.
But throughout the day somehow it got pushed out of my thoughts.
There are mitigating circumstances, though, m'lud and members of the Gashead Jury.
And they go like this...
On Tuesday I had to take my wife to her mums, along with my baby daughter.
The mother-in-law just happens to live in Lavenham, a small historic town in the darkest recesses of Suffolk.
The car was a heaving mass of buggies, pillows, toys, quilt covers, suitcases and the like.
We are talking Nissan Micra, not stretch limo.
We were on the road in reasonable time, just after 1pm.
Hitting the M4, everything was going pretty well, apart from a short traffic snarl up just outside Bath because of an accident.
Still, we got through that relatively unscathed and were making good progress when my wife came up with an idea.
"I know, why don't we take a more scenic route and try to get there without using the motorway?" she said.
And that's when it all went a bit Pete Tong.
We came off at Swindon and ambled through picturesque country lanes towards Oxford. So far so good.
Then on to Abingdon and, after a couple of false turns, we seemed to be making decent time.
My wife, via google maps on her I-phone, had found what she believed to be the most direct, simple, route imagineable.
As it got darker we hit Dunstable and suddenly the traffic increased.
For the next two hours we experienced solid London rush-hour traffic.
We had to drive through Luton. Gridlock. Hitchen. More gridlock.
The baby started crying.
We had to stop to feed her and pulled off in the dark at a place called Royston.
Um, perhaps this was the place on which the League of Gentlemen based Royston Veysey.
It was dark, full of strange characters, hoody clad youths smoking mysterious substances, a strange man following us in a car... "You're not from around ere..."
And the five toilets at the local car park were all shut.
So we drove on, a little bit perturbed by our experience.
And on... and on... and on....
It usually takes me four and a half hours at most to drive to Lavenham.
This took over seven hours!
I had no radio to keep me in touch. It was like we have disappeared into a vortex of the space-time continuum.
And it was only when I googled the BBC website on arrival at Lavenham, having changed the baby, put her to bed, unpacked the car and had a desperately needed cup of tea that the message came up...
Pasty-munchers made famous by a car insurance advert 3, Bristol's finest 1.
A perfectly miserable end to a perfectly miserable day.
By all accounts, though, we played pretty well and it was an end-to-end attacking encounter.
And it leaves us in a familiar position.
Not at the top, not at the bottom. Sat right in the middle.
In fact if we had conceded four less goals we would have a claim to possessing the most perfectly boring record in the entire football league.
Won 5, drawn 5, lost 5.
Still, onwards and upwards this weekend. Darlington away in the first-round of the FA Cup.
Wonder how easy it is to get there without using the motorway?
For one, strange, unfathomable, reason I actually FORGOT the Gas were playing on Tuesday.
Not all of Tuesday, mind.
It was possibly the first thing I thought of when I got up in the morning.
Rovers.
Away to Plymouth.
Desperately need something from the game after throwing away a couple of points at home to Carlisle on Saturday.
But throughout the day somehow it got pushed out of my thoughts.
There are mitigating circumstances, though, m'lud and members of the Gashead Jury.
And they go like this...
On Tuesday I had to take my wife to her mums, along with my baby daughter.
The mother-in-law just happens to live in Lavenham, a small historic town in the darkest recesses of Suffolk.
The car was a heaving mass of buggies, pillows, toys, quilt covers, suitcases and the like.
We are talking Nissan Micra, not stretch limo.
We were on the road in reasonable time, just after 1pm.
Hitting the M4, everything was going pretty well, apart from a short traffic snarl up just outside Bath because of an accident.
Still, we got through that relatively unscathed and were making good progress when my wife came up with an idea.
"I know, why don't we take a more scenic route and try to get there without using the motorway?" she said.
And that's when it all went a bit Pete Tong.
We came off at Swindon and ambled through picturesque country lanes towards Oxford. So far so good.
Then on to Abingdon and, after a couple of false turns, we seemed to be making decent time.
My wife, via google maps on her I-phone, had found what she believed to be the most direct, simple, route imagineable.
As it got darker we hit Dunstable and suddenly the traffic increased.
For the next two hours we experienced solid London rush-hour traffic.
We had to drive through Luton. Gridlock. Hitchen. More gridlock.
The baby started crying.
We had to stop to feed her and pulled off in the dark at a place called Royston.
Um, perhaps this was the place on which the League of Gentlemen based Royston Veysey.
It was dark, full of strange characters, hoody clad youths smoking mysterious substances, a strange man following us in a car... "You're not from around ere..."
And the five toilets at the local car park were all shut.
So we drove on, a little bit perturbed by our experience.
And on... and on... and on....
It usually takes me four and a half hours at most to drive to Lavenham.
This took over seven hours!
I had no radio to keep me in touch. It was like we have disappeared into a vortex of the space-time continuum.
And it was only when I googled the BBC website on arrival at Lavenham, having changed the baby, put her to bed, unpacked the car and had a desperately needed cup of tea that the message came up...
Pasty-munchers made famous by a car insurance advert 3, Bristol's finest 1.
A perfectly miserable end to a perfectly miserable day.
By all accounts, though, we played pretty well and it was an end-to-end attacking encounter.
And it leaves us in a familiar position.
Not at the top, not at the bottom. Sat right in the middle.
In fact if we had conceded four less goals we would have a claim to possessing the most perfectly boring record in the entire football league.
Won 5, drawn 5, lost 5.
Still, onwards and upwards this weekend. Darlington away in the first-round of the FA Cup.
Wonder how easy it is to get there without using the motorway?
Monday 1 November 2010
Loyal supporters
Being a Bristol Rovers fan is a conversation stopper.
I know from experience.
In most of the environments I work in the banter surrounds the Premier League. The West Ham fans wind up the Tottenham massive, the Chelsea fans just gloat, the Arsenal fans rise above it all because they believe Lord Wenger's "pure" football cannot be faulted...
I join in sometimes, and anyone new to the conversation, a Spurs follower or a strident Gooner, will eventually ask "Who do you support?"
"Bristol Rovers."
It normally brings a look of bafflement followed by the questioner turning to his mate and asking, "anyway, who do you think will win the London derby this weekend?"
Dismissed in an instant. A conversation stopper, you see.
I think those people just cannot get it into their heads how ANYONE can support a mid-table League One side who have NEVER been in the top flight and have just dabbled with success on rare occasions in the lower divisions.
But some fans have it even worse. Supporting a team from Bristol is nothing compared to the bemusement you must encounter when you say, "Yeah, I support Carlisle United."
Carlisle? Where is that?
Isn't it in Scotland?
You can just imagine how the glory-hunting, Premier League fan would react to that.
I mean... who IS your closest rival if you follow Carlisle?
Celtic? Rejkavic? North Pole United?
It is, quite honestly, in the back of beyond.
Which is why I have to give a grudging admiration for their supporters and particularly those who travel vast distances to see their team every week.
Like Nuclear Neil.
The nickname comes from the fact he works in the local power station.
And every year he travels all over Britain to see them perform at our pretty mundane level of the football league.
I know he drove down to see the game at the Mem on Saturday.
He did last year as well, and couldn't have been too joyous on the long haul home after we overturned a 2-1 deficit to steal the game in the last seconds.
This time, too, it looked like they would be leaving empty handed.
The Gas were leading 1-0 through a goal from the much maligned Chris Lines and were three minutes away from a win which would have lifted us into the lofty position of fourth in the division.
Then, disaster struck. Their on-loan signing from Leeds Mike Grella equalised.
And even worse, the Gas gave away a penalty three minutes into injury time.
Gary Madine stepped up to take it but our Danish superhero goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen flung himself to his left to push the ball away.
Pride of Bristol 1, Capital of the Back of Beyond 1.
Phew! Relief for the Gas, but let's spare a thought for Nuclear Neil and his crew.
A long journey home to think about what might have been.
We all like to think of ourselves as loyal supporters, in fact the words of OUR song Goodnight Irene begin "We're loyal supporters, faithful and true.."
But Carlisle fans are beyond that.
The most loyal supporters in the land? Or, quite simply, nutters?
I know from experience.
In most of the environments I work in the banter surrounds the Premier League. The West Ham fans wind up the Tottenham massive, the Chelsea fans just gloat, the Arsenal fans rise above it all because they believe Lord Wenger's "pure" football cannot be faulted...
I join in sometimes, and anyone new to the conversation, a Spurs follower or a strident Gooner, will eventually ask "Who do you support?"
"Bristol Rovers."
It normally brings a look of bafflement followed by the questioner turning to his mate and asking, "anyway, who do you think will win the London derby this weekend?"
Dismissed in an instant. A conversation stopper, you see.
I think those people just cannot get it into their heads how ANYONE can support a mid-table League One side who have NEVER been in the top flight and have just dabbled with success on rare occasions in the lower divisions.
But some fans have it even worse. Supporting a team from Bristol is nothing compared to the bemusement you must encounter when you say, "Yeah, I support Carlisle United."
Carlisle? Where is that?
Isn't it in Scotland?
You can just imagine how the glory-hunting, Premier League fan would react to that.
I mean... who IS your closest rival if you follow Carlisle?
Celtic? Rejkavic? North Pole United?
It is, quite honestly, in the back of beyond.
Which is why I have to give a grudging admiration for their supporters and particularly those who travel vast distances to see their team every week.
Like Nuclear Neil.
The nickname comes from the fact he works in the local power station.
And every year he travels all over Britain to see them perform at our pretty mundane level of the football league.
I know he drove down to see the game at the Mem on Saturday.
He did last year as well, and couldn't have been too joyous on the long haul home after we overturned a 2-1 deficit to steal the game in the last seconds.
This time, too, it looked like they would be leaving empty handed.
The Gas were leading 1-0 through a goal from the much maligned Chris Lines and were three minutes away from a win which would have lifted us into the lofty position of fourth in the division.
Then, disaster struck. Their on-loan signing from Leeds Mike Grella equalised.
And even worse, the Gas gave away a penalty three minutes into injury time.
Gary Madine stepped up to take it but our Danish superhero goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen flung himself to his left to push the ball away.
Pride of Bristol 1, Capital of the Back of Beyond 1.
Phew! Relief for the Gas, but let's spare a thought for Nuclear Neil and his crew.
A long journey home to think about what might have been.
We all like to think of ourselves as loyal supporters, in fact the words of OUR song Goodnight Irene begin "We're loyal supporters, faithful and true.."
But Carlisle fans are beyond that.
The most loyal supporters in the land? Or, quite simply, nutters?
Wednesday 27 October 2010
Stelling performance
WHEN your team is playing Hartlepool and Jeff Stelling is smiling you know you're in trouble.
Stelling - for those who have been living in outer Mongolia or have no interest in football and have clicked on this blog thinking it was going to give you a recipe for tonight's tea - is the presenter of Sky's Saturday afternoon football show.
He's a mad Hartlepool fan - a breed about as rare as a Dutch hill farmer.
And he takes great delight in everyone knowing it if his side happen to be in the ascendancy.
Well, at around 4.35pm the Jeffmeister was positively beaming.
And I knew it wasn't good news.
Sure enough, the scoreline flashed up on screen. Ten minutes to go and it was Hartlepool 2, Bristol Rovers 0.
By all accounts we hadn't had a shot on target.
The only saving grace was that James Brown wasn't playing and hadn't scored the second goal.
You see, when Brown is playing Stelling always has a bobblehead figure of the soul singer James Brown on his desk. And if he scores this musical doll starts bouncing around to the tune "I feel good".
You know the one. "I feeeel goood. Knew that I would now..."
And Stelling will join in the merry dance.
Anyway, back to Saturday afternoon.
Stelling is beaming, and dancing to a fashion - though without the aid of his sex machine toy.
And I am feeling as low as can be.
Hartlepool. Away.
A God forsaken place.
I went there in a past life, when I used to be the Wrexham reporter for the Evening Leader.
It was so cold I had to wear two pairs of long johns and a pair of mittens.
The game took place in late December. The wind was howling off the north sea, there was snow, and I argue to this day that the ink froze in my pen.
I could only sympathise with the 170 Gasheads who had made the journey out of pure love, or complete brain freeze, to see us getting a whipping.
Apparently, according to the BBC website, we hadn't even managed a shot on target.
But wait...
Jo Kuffour pulls a goal back with five minutes to go.
The Jeffmeister takes it on the chin. Oh well, 2-1. Purely a minor inconvenience, he is musing in his head.
Time ticks by and Stelling continues to update us of the scores around the football grounds of the country.
Then suddenly his face changes.
There is a cringe, like he's sucking on a marmite-flavoured gobstopper.
And there is laughter in the background.
It's coming from all his ex-footballer buddies - Phil Thompson and Paul Merson are two of his tormentors in chief.
And suddenly I know. The miracle has happened.
We've managed to grab a last-minute equaliser.
It's come from our centre back Byron "Lord" Anthony, who is making a bit of a habit of grabbing late goals.
Unfortunately, last week's was into his own net, but no matter.
He's made up for it this time and the Gas have pulled off another away-day miracle, following on from the Huddersfield win.
Shortly afterwards comes the final score.
Coldest place in the world which once elected a Monkey as mayor 2,
Shining lights of the warm south 2.
And though it is not the result we would have wanted - a win to carry us into the highest reaches of League One - it has spared me from walking around with a miserable face for the next few days, questioning whether the Gas are really capable of mounting a promotion challenge this season.
And in my head I can hear the Jeffmeister's song, but it is me that's singing it this time.
"I feeeel gooood..."
Stelling - for those who have been living in outer Mongolia or have no interest in football and have clicked on this blog thinking it was going to give you a recipe for tonight's tea - is the presenter of Sky's Saturday afternoon football show.
He's a mad Hartlepool fan - a breed about as rare as a Dutch hill farmer.
And he takes great delight in everyone knowing it if his side happen to be in the ascendancy.
Well, at around 4.35pm the Jeffmeister was positively beaming.
And I knew it wasn't good news.
Sure enough, the scoreline flashed up on screen. Ten minutes to go and it was Hartlepool 2, Bristol Rovers 0.
By all accounts we hadn't had a shot on target.
The only saving grace was that James Brown wasn't playing and hadn't scored the second goal.
You see, when Brown is playing Stelling always has a bobblehead figure of the soul singer James Brown on his desk. And if he scores this musical doll starts bouncing around to the tune "I feel good".
You know the one. "I feeeel goood. Knew that I would now..."
And Stelling will join in the merry dance.
Anyway, back to Saturday afternoon.
Stelling is beaming, and dancing to a fashion - though without the aid of his sex machine toy.
And I am feeling as low as can be.
Hartlepool. Away.
A God forsaken place.
I went there in a past life, when I used to be the Wrexham reporter for the Evening Leader.
It was so cold I had to wear two pairs of long johns and a pair of mittens.
The game took place in late December. The wind was howling off the north sea, there was snow, and I argue to this day that the ink froze in my pen.
I could only sympathise with the 170 Gasheads who had made the journey out of pure love, or complete brain freeze, to see us getting a whipping.
Apparently, according to the BBC website, we hadn't even managed a shot on target.
But wait...
Jo Kuffour pulls a goal back with five minutes to go.
The Jeffmeister takes it on the chin. Oh well, 2-1. Purely a minor inconvenience, he is musing in his head.
Time ticks by and Stelling continues to update us of the scores around the football grounds of the country.
Then suddenly his face changes.
There is a cringe, like he's sucking on a marmite-flavoured gobstopper.
And there is laughter in the background.
It's coming from all his ex-footballer buddies - Phil Thompson and Paul Merson are two of his tormentors in chief.
And suddenly I know. The miracle has happened.
We've managed to grab a last-minute equaliser.
It's come from our centre back Byron "Lord" Anthony, who is making a bit of a habit of grabbing late goals.
Unfortunately, last week's was into his own net, but no matter.
He's made up for it this time and the Gas have pulled off another away-day miracle, following on from the Huddersfield win.
Shortly afterwards comes the final score.
Coldest place in the world which once elected a Monkey as mayor 2,
Shining lights of the warm south 2.
And though it is not the result we would have wanted - a win to carry us into the highest reaches of League One - it has spared me from walking around with a miserable face for the next few days, questioning whether the Gas are really capable of mounting a promotion challenge this season.
And in my head I can hear the Jeffmeister's song, but it is me that's singing it this time.
"I feeeel gooood..."
Friday 22 October 2010
Wayne storm
THE gossip wires have been buzzing this week.
It's all been Wayne this, Wayne that.
Is it true he has asked for a transfer?
Why is he still on the subs bench when lesser players are in the first team?
Has it all been down to a huge fall-out with the manager?
Well, it has kept me hooked, particularly as it involves a player who has hardly kicked a ball in anger at the highest level.
Oh.
You thought I was talking about Mr Rooney?
His announcement he is leaving Manchester United, only to do a quick pirouette (expect to see him on Strictly Come Dancing soon) and sign a new 5-year contract with the club has been the talk on everyone's lips.
Well, everyone but we Gasheads, that is.
Because when you support your OWN club, not some media-saturated, multi-national conglomerate in danger of losing its soul to money-grabbing shareholders, you are every bit as passionate about what goes on within.
And the story that's got US gripped involves Wayne Brown.
Heard of him?
He's a 21-year-old midfielder weighing in at 5ft and a fag end.
As far as I know he doesn't spend money on £1,000-a-night hookers, or have a wife that appears on the front of OK and Hello every week of the year.
He's just a common-or-garden, middle-of-the-road, League One footballer.
We signed him in the summer from Fulham where I believe he made the odd appearance in the fizzy lager cup - one of them against us which, incidentally, we won - but not much else.
Still, he was on the books of a Premier League club. And, by all accounts, they wanted him to stay.
But he jumped ship and came to the Gas, obviously attracted by the magnificent aura of the Mem, the exciting football on offer and, yes, a guaranteed first-team place.
Except, of course, it wasn't guaranteed.
He had a couple of games and ever since then has been getting splinters in his backside.
Meanwhile local boy Chris Lines - a Gashead through and through - has been keeping him out of the side, and getting slated for what fans argue have been some pretty poor performances this season.
Brown must play, Lines must not is the mantra.
It's obvious Brown should play because he can pass, shoot, run and score.
He would be the ideal foil for our super striker, Good Will Hoskins.
In fact, by my estimate, it is only our manager Paul Trollope who remains completely oblivious to this fact.
Still, Lines had a stay of execution by Gashead firing squad last week.
He actually scored.
For the first time this season he found his shooting boots and brilliantly hooked the ball home for the vital second goal against Rochdale.
So keeping his place, no doubt, for another week.
This week's trip to Hartlepool, where three points would leave us sitting very nicely, thank you, in the top echelons of League One.
The rumbles remain, though. Is it true that while Lines has been holding down a place, Brown has been marching into the manager's office demanding a transfer?
Did Trolls come face to face with him in a slagging match, and did he throw his shirt on the floor?
Well, I'm not averse to a bit of creative tension in the ranks, to be honest.
And I salute a player who is that keen to play that he can't contain his frustration.
But I'm sure he will get his chance.
Meanwhile Lines - who notched more than a dozen goals for the Gas from midfield last season - may well have received a massive boost to his confidence with last week's strike.
And I imagine he will be very keen to repay the loyalty the manager has shown to him.
Hopefully, he will do that with another goal at Hartlepool.
While the team is winning, it's hard to criticise the manager's selections.
It's when things go wrong that the clamour will start to get our Wayne in the team.
Puts poor Sir Alex Ferguson's problems in perspective a bit, doesn't it?
It's all been Wayne this, Wayne that.
Is it true he has asked for a transfer?
Why is he still on the subs bench when lesser players are in the first team?
Has it all been down to a huge fall-out with the manager?
Well, it has kept me hooked, particularly as it involves a player who has hardly kicked a ball in anger at the highest level.
Oh.
You thought I was talking about Mr Rooney?
His announcement he is leaving Manchester United, only to do a quick pirouette (expect to see him on Strictly Come Dancing soon) and sign a new 5-year contract with the club has been the talk on everyone's lips.
Well, everyone but we Gasheads, that is.
Because when you support your OWN club, not some media-saturated, multi-national conglomerate in danger of losing its soul to money-grabbing shareholders, you are every bit as passionate about what goes on within.
And the story that's got US gripped involves Wayne Brown.
Heard of him?
He's a 21-year-old midfielder weighing in at 5ft and a fag end.
As far as I know he doesn't spend money on £1,000-a-night hookers, or have a wife that appears on the front of OK and Hello every week of the year.
He's just a common-or-garden, middle-of-the-road, League One footballer.
We signed him in the summer from Fulham where I believe he made the odd appearance in the fizzy lager cup - one of them against us which, incidentally, we won - but not much else.
Still, he was on the books of a Premier League club. And, by all accounts, they wanted him to stay.
But he jumped ship and came to the Gas, obviously attracted by the magnificent aura of the Mem, the exciting football on offer and, yes, a guaranteed first-team place.
Except, of course, it wasn't guaranteed.
He had a couple of games and ever since then has been getting splinters in his backside.
Meanwhile local boy Chris Lines - a Gashead through and through - has been keeping him out of the side, and getting slated for what fans argue have been some pretty poor performances this season.
Brown must play, Lines must not is the mantra.
It's obvious Brown should play because he can pass, shoot, run and score.
He would be the ideal foil for our super striker, Good Will Hoskins.
In fact, by my estimate, it is only our manager Paul Trollope who remains completely oblivious to this fact.
Still, Lines had a stay of execution by Gashead firing squad last week.
He actually scored.
For the first time this season he found his shooting boots and brilliantly hooked the ball home for the vital second goal against Rochdale.
So keeping his place, no doubt, for another week.
This week's trip to Hartlepool, where three points would leave us sitting very nicely, thank you, in the top echelons of League One.
The rumbles remain, though. Is it true that while Lines has been holding down a place, Brown has been marching into the manager's office demanding a transfer?
Did Trolls come face to face with him in a slagging match, and did he throw his shirt on the floor?
Well, I'm not averse to a bit of creative tension in the ranks, to be honest.
And I salute a player who is that keen to play that he can't contain his frustration.
But I'm sure he will get his chance.
Meanwhile Lines - who notched more than a dozen goals for the Gas from midfield last season - may well have received a massive boost to his confidence with last week's strike.
And I imagine he will be very keen to repay the loyalty the manager has shown to him.
Hopefully, he will do that with another goal at Hartlepool.
While the team is winning, it's hard to criticise the manager's selections.
It's when things go wrong that the clamour will start to get our Wayne in the team.
Puts poor Sir Alex Ferguson's problems in perspective a bit, doesn't it?
Monday 18 October 2010
Singing the Blues
WHAT a great time to be a Gashead.
Not only are we enjoying the lofty position of ninth in league one, but our noisy neighbours Bristol City have been extremely quiet of late.
All that early season of optimism, the appointment of Steve Coppell, the signing of England goalkeeper David James... it's all gone horrible wrong.
Early on Saturday my work mate told me with - I must admit a bit of mischievous glee in his voice - that City were 2-0 up. At high-flying Cardiff.
This was the same workmate who had taken great pleasure in informing me at the start of the season that he had wedged a great deal of his hard-earned on the Trashton Gate mob to win promotion. Where could it all go wrong?
Well, for starters Coppell quit after two weeks, honestly admitting he had fallen out of love with the game. Being manager of the Sh**heads, as we affectionately know them, can do that to you, I'm sure.
And then they appointed their long-suffering assistant manager Keith Millen to the hot seat on a three-year contract.
Cue more big-money signings, more optimism and . . . a wave of bad results that even the most fatalistic of our Bristol brethren couldn't have imagined.
Anyway, to this Saturday. City bottom of the league but 2-0 up.
Not for long. By the early part of the second half it is 2-2 and by the full-time whistle Cardiff have managed to grab a winner.
Leaving City stranded at the foot of the table.
Oh my word. It's not even 2 o'clock yet.
And as the afternoon goes on things get better.
Right on the stroke of half time a shout goes up across the office, some enthusiastic cockney who is feeding off my new-found enthusiasm and attempting a rather poor imitation of a Brizzle accent.
"Roooovvveeers!"
I look up at the screen and we're 1-0 up. A Jeff Hughes penalty breaking the stubborn resistance of the mighty Rochdale. Oh, things can only get better.
And they do.
With minutes left I am looking at the BBC website table, which shows you the positions if the scores remain the same by the end of the game.
I've both fingers crossed and anticipating the fact that we could be in the top half of the table, just a couple of points away from an automatic promotion place.
Then it's 2-0 and the much-maligned Chris Lines has put us in comfortable command of the game.
Well. Almost.
Because it is absolutely NEVER like that as a Gashead. However much you feel things are going right, there is always going to be a nervous few moments at the end of a Saturday evening.
Sure enough. Four minutes to go and our reliable centre back Byron Anthony has put through his own net.
Hence a white knuckle ride to the end of the game and I'm not able to relax before the final score comes through.
And Rovers always seem to be one of the LAST results to come up.
Finally. Finally.
Big City in the West Country 2, Pokey little place ooop north whose ground sits next to the wonderfully named Cemetery Hotel 1.
"Never felt more like singing the Blues, when Rovers win and the City lose"
As a Gashead you KNOW it can't last.
At some stage, you realise, City will start winning games.
And at some stage, you fear, Rovers will start slipping backwards.
That's why you make the most of every minute, every hour, every day that goes by - walking around with a smile on your face and a song in your heart.
For once, for once, Rovers have the bragging rights in the eternal battle for one-upmanship over our sworn nemesis.
Not only are we enjoying the lofty position of ninth in league one, but our noisy neighbours Bristol City have been extremely quiet of late.
All that early season of optimism, the appointment of Steve Coppell, the signing of England goalkeeper David James... it's all gone horrible wrong.
Early on Saturday my work mate told me with - I must admit a bit of mischievous glee in his voice - that City were 2-0 up. At high-flying Cardiff.
This was the same workmate who had taken great pleasure in informing me at the start of the season that he had wedged a great deal of his hard-earned on the Trashton Gate mob to win promotion. Where could it all go wrong?
Well, for starters Coppell quit after two weeks, honestly admitting he had fallen out of love with the game. Being manager of the Sh**heads, as we affectionately know them, can do that to you, I'm sure.
And then they appointed their long-suffering assistant manager Keith Millen to the hot seat on a three-year contract.
Cue more big-money signings, more optimism and . . . a wave of bad results that even the most fatalistic of our Bristol brethren couldn't have imagined.
Anyway, to this Saturday. City bottom of the league but 2-0 up.
Not for long. By the early part of the second half it is 2-2 and by the full-time whistle Cardiff have managed to grab a winner.
Leaving City stranded at the foot of the table.
Oh my word. It's not even 2 o'clock yet.
And as the afternoon goes on things get better.
Right on the stroke of half time a shout goes up across the office, some enthusiastic cockney who is feeding off my new-found enthusiasm and attempting a rather poor imitation of a Brizzle accent.
"Roooovvveeers!"
I look up at the screen and we're 1-0 up. A Jeff Hughes penalty breaking the stubborn resistance of the mighty Rochdale. Oh, things can only get better.
And they do.
With minutes left I am looking at the BBC website table, which shows you the positions if the scores remain the same by the end of the game.
I've both fingers crossed and anticipating the fact that we could be in the top half of the table, just a couple of points away from an automatic promotion place.
Then it's 2-0 and the much-maligned Chris Lines has put us in comfortable command of the game.
Well. Almost.
Because it is absolutely NEVER like that as a Gashead. However much you feel things are going right, there is always going to be a nervous few moments at the end of a Saturday evening.
Sure enough. Four minutes to go and our reliable centre back Byron Anthony has put through his own net.
Hence a white knuckle ride to the end of the game and I'm not able to relax before the final score comes through.
And Rovers always seem to be one of the LAST results to come up.
Finally. Finally.
Big City in the West Country 2, Pokey little place ooop north whose ground sits next to the wonderfully named Cemetery Hotel 1.
"Never felt more like singing the Blues, when Rovers win and the City lose"
As a Gashead you KNOW it can't last.
At some stage, you realise, City will start winning games.
And at some stage, you fear, Rovers will start slipping backwards.
That's why you make the most of every minute, every hour, every day that goes by - walking around with a smile on your face and a song in your heart.
For once, for once, Rovers have the bragging rights in the eternal battle for one-upmanship over our sworn nemesis.
Wednesday 13 October 2010
Come on Down!
Slum clearance area of London with silliest roundabout in the World..... 2
Pride of the west country...... 1
There comes a time when every supporter of the struggling, lowly, unrecognised, after-thoughts in the world of professional football get their moment in the spotlight.
Their 90 minutes of fame.
It's a time when all the millionaire poseurs who ply their trade in the Premiership get a week's holiday which is termed the international break.
It's a time when they don't do much, just jog about a football pitch and play in third gear before settling for a 0-0 draw (in England's case) with the mighty nation that is Montenegro.
Meanwhile, with nothing else to fill the airways, the tv bigwigs scout around for a game which will perhaps raise a modicum of interest with the general football-loving populous.
On Monday it was our turn - We're on the telly for the local derby at Swindon.
Just like a game show it's: Bristol Rovers, come on down!
Yes, it's our turn to be scrutinised and patronised - not, of course, by the 'top' boys like Andy Gray or Jamie Redknapp. Not even by the second team, in fact. But by 'expert' TV pundits like Don Goodman, that rather inconsequential footballer who has had more clubs than Jack Nicklaus.
And it's a chance for a presenter, not a no 1 name like Richard Keys or Jeff Stelling but on this occasion David Jones (I think), to swat up for eight days so that he can use the term Gasheads as if he knows who we are and follows our every result with keen interest.
No matter. I've had the whole weekend to look forward to it.
And a whole weekend to worry that we might be shown up in front of the watching nation, giving my "friends" around the country the chance to send me mickey-taking sneers on twitter, facebook, email and text message.
Phew, as it is, we escape that.
Ok, we go down 2-1 but I think we give a good account of ourselves in what is an entertaining end-to-end game.
To be honest, with a bit more luck in the first half we might have got a goal and raised the Swindon nerves a bit. After all, we won 4-0 at their place last year - and that was against a team who went on to lose the League One play-off final at Wembley.
Yet despite how well we played in that opening half I always had the suspicion we would lose this one.
Swindon have struggled at the start of this season, but were due a result.
We were in the middle of what Rovers fans would constitute a good run - three wins and a draw out of our last five games, with only the disaster at home to Tranmere interrupting a spell which could have taken us into the top five of the division.
As a Gashead, you know it's all a bit too good to be true.
And that's why I wasn't surprised when we went behind, against the run of play, in the dying minutes of the first half.
The writing was on the wall when our loan striker from Trashton, John Akinde, managed to blast his shot straight at the keeper when through on goal and our new hero, Will Hoskins, managed to blaze over the rebound when the goal was gaping just after the break.
Then we were totally outplayed for a spell of about 15 minutes in which the inevitable second goal came.
So, when it looked like a big defeat might be on the way, I was delighted we carried on fighting and managed to grab a "consolation" penalty at the death through Jeff Hughes.
Impressions? Well, all the "experts" acknowledged both sides showed some good "quality" and I only had one or two gripes.
Our manager Paul Trollope has certainly pulled things around lately, but I still feel he leaves things too late before changing them.
It was obvious during Swindon's second half purple patch that he should make a change to strengthen the midfield by withdrawing one of the strikers, but he didn't do so until after the second goal went in.
Then, with Charlie Reece on the wing and Hoskins moved into a central position, there was enough evidence to suggest we could have turned the game around had the switch been made sooner.
Also, I worry about the fact that every time the Danish Under 21s have a game we lose our first-choice goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen.
Whatever the perceived merits of his replacement Mike Green, it was evident that communications between he and the back four were haphazard, leaving us particularly vulnerable. Also, his distribution and kicking from hand is atrocious.
How often will he be called upon when Mikkel has an away day, I wonder?
And will it cost us valuable points throughout the season? Time will tell.
Still, I'm hoping that, as Trolls insists, we are a work in progress and that we weren't just performing well because of the TV cameras.
Last season we played out of our skins to beat Charlton 2-1 at home, only to finish the season with some pretty appalling results and performances.
Rochdale's manager Keith Hill was one of the experts in the TV studio on Monday.
His team come to the Mem on Saturday.
I'm hoping and praying he hasn't learned too much from our day in the limelight.
Pride of the west country...... 1
There comes a time when every supporter of the struggling, lowly, unrecognised, after-thoughts in the world of professional football get their moment in the spotlight.
Their 90 minutes of fame.
It's a time when all the millionaire poseurs who ply their trade in the Premiership get a week's holiday which is termed the international break.
It's a time when they don't do much, just jog about a football pitch and play in third gear before settling for a 0-0 draw (in England's case) with the mighty nation that is Montenegro.
Meanwhile, with nothing else to fill the airways, the tv bigwigs scout around for a game which will perhaps raise a modicum of interest with the general football-loving populous.
On Monday it was our turn - We're on the telly for the local derby at Swindon.
Just like a game show it's: Bristol Rovers, come on down!
Yes, it's our turn to be scrutinised and patronised - not, of course, by the 'top' boys like Andy Gray or Jamie Redknapp. Not even by the second team, in fact. But by 'expert' TV pundits like Don Goodman, that rather inconsequential footballer who has had more clubs than Jack Nicklaus.
And it's a chance for a presenter, not a no 1 name like Richard Keys or Jeff Stelling but on this occasion David Jones (I think), to swat up for eight days so that he can use the term Gasheads as if he knows who we are and follows our every result with keen interest.
No matter. I've had the whole weekend to look forward to it.
And a whole weekend to worry that we might be shown up in front of the watching nation, giving my "friends" around the country the chance to send me mickey-taking sneers on twitter, facebook, email and text message.
Phew, as it is, we escape that.
Ok, we go down 2-1 but I think we give a good account of ourselves in what is an entertaining end-to-end game.
To be honest, with a bit more luck in the first half we might have got a goal and raised the Swindon nerves a bit. After all, we won 4-0 at their place last year - and that was against a team who went on to lose the League One play-off final at Wembley.
Yet despite how well we played in that opening half I always had the suspicion we would lose this one.
Swindon have struggled at the start of this season, but were due a result.
We were in the middle of what Rovers fans would constitute a good run - three wins and a draw out of our last five games, with only the disaster at home to Tranmere interrupting a spell which could have taken us into the top five of the division.
As a Gashead, you know it's all a bit too good to be true.
And that's why I wasn't surprised when we went behind, against the run of play, in the dying minutes of the first half.
The writing was on the wall when our loan striker from Trashton, John Akinde, managed to blast his shot straight at the keeper when through on goal and our new hero, Will Hoskins, managed to blaze over the rebound when the goal was gaping just after the break.
Then we were totally outplayed for a spell of about 15 minutes in which the inevitable second goal came.
So, when it looked like a big defeat might be on the way, I was delighted we carried on fighting and managed to grab a "consolation" penalty at the death through Jeff Hughes.
Impressions? Well, all the "experts" acknowledged both sides showed some good "quality" and I only had one or two gripes.
Our manager Paul Trollope has certainly pulled things around lately, but I still feel he leaves things too late before changing them.
It was obvious during Swindon's second half purple patch that he should make a change to strengthen the midfield by withdrawing one of the strikers, but he didn't do so until after the second goal went in.
Then, with Charlie Reece on the wing and Hoskins moved into a central position, there was enough evidence to suggest we could have turned the game around had the switch been made sooner.
Also, I worry about the fact that every time the Danish Under 21s have a game we lose our first-choice goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen.
Whatever the perceived merits of his replacement Mike Green, it was evident that communications between he and the back four were haphazard, leaving us particularly vulnerable. Also, his distribution and kicking from hand is atrocious.
How often will he be called upon when Mikkel has an away day, I wonder?
And will it cost us valuable points throughout the season? Time will tell.
Still, I'm hoping that, as Trolls insists, we are a work in progress and that we weren't just performing well because of the TV cameras.
Last season we played out of our skins to beat Charlton 2-1 at home, only to finish the season with some pretty appalling results and performances.
Rochdale's manager Keith Hill was one of the experts in the TV studio on Monday.
His team come to the Mem on Saturday.
I'm hoping and praying he hasn't learned too much from our day in the limelight.
Wednesday 6 October 2010
Gould help us
SOME nights I wake up in a cold sweat.
At 3 in the morning I find that my throat is dry and the bedclothes are soaked.
I try to search my brain for what has scared me to such an extent that I am frozen rigid, eyes wide, shaking uncontrollably.
Then I remember the dream. Well, not a dream, more my worst nightmare.
It is of a Bristol Rovers chairman proudly announcing that after much persuasion they have invited Bobby Gould to take charge of the Gas once again.
Then I realise it is a dream, but it still keeps me awake for the rest of the night.
Because I know Gould still lives in Portishead, just around the corner.
And various people have spotted him shopping in supermarkets in close proximity to the Mem.
Oh my word.
Younger souls may wonder why I have such an irrational fear of this man stepping back into the hot seat. I'll try to explain...
I am sure that to his nearest and dearest Bobby Gould is a lovely man, cherished by his family, idolised by those near and dear- and possibly still revered by fans of Wimbledon FC.
I know the press adore him because he is always there with a friendly smile, a little joke and a ready quote.
He can charm the birds off the trees, and certainly football chairmen have fallen over themselves to put him in charge of their clubs.
He is a political animal. He says exactly what people want to hear.
And out of every single manager the Gas have had... I hate him the most.
Logical? Well, it doesn't have to be really.
That's the nature of being a football fan.
You don't need any cast-iron reasons to hate someone, you just do.
But I'll try to explain it to those youngsters who - on reading the publicity for his new book 24-carat Gould - think he sounds like a really decent sort and a good football manager.
My first memories of Bobby Gould were when he was playing for Arsenal against Swindon Town in the 1969 League Cup final.
Arsenal lost 3-1 and Gould scored their goal.
At the end of the game he cried.
It was there for all to see.
A show for the gutted Gunners fans? I think so.
Because he is an extremely good actor.
We loved him when he joined Rovers and scored a hat-trick against Blackburn on his debut.
And, of course, he said he loved us.
Eventually he became our manager, his first job. And he did ok, without pulling up any trees.
Then, as soon as his old club Coventry City came knocking, he left us. Just like that.
We're talking about the kind of guy who kisses your badge one minute... then shoots off to another club as soon as a better offer comes along - without a glance back.
In the wisdom of our board he later came back to the club, and I know many of us weren't happy about that.
You see, football isn't like any other job where you can just up sticks and move because you've had a better offer... then return when it doesn't work out.
Again, he didn't achieve much.
We needed a tactically astute manager who would take us to another level, win us promotion or some silverware.
But Gould was more Ossie Ardiles and Kevin Keegan than Brian Clough. Let's throw everything forward and hope for the best.
He tried to woo the fans over, yes. He even got the club to pay for Gasheads to travel and support the team in an away game at Walsall.
I think we lost 5-1, but those with better memories can put me right on that.
Then, when a better offer came along, he buggered off again.
Wimbledon. His one REAL success story.
He took them to the FA Cup final and a fairytale win over Liverpool.
The Crazy Gang run by a self-proclaimed "Crazy" guy.
Not bad, eh?
Except I have a sneaky suspicion that success was down to the fact Don Howe was his first team coach.
Still, that's the job of a manager - to bring in the best people for the job, so I guess he has every right to take the credit for that.
And he will.
He tries to take the credit for everything.
The number of times I have heard him babbling on about his "successes" at Bristol Rovers, how he discovered and developed this player or that player, how he changed things around so brilliantly for us. How, any time we get a modicum of success, he somehow managed to play a part in this.
This is his modus operandi. He waits for people to forget his mistakes, the number of times he opened his mouth and put his foot in it, and sprinkles fairy dust over everything.
He rewrites his past better than anyone I know.
But my association with Gould does not just extent to my time as a Gashead.
I was working as a journalist in Wales when he took the job as their national manager.
And, yes, the press loved him.
The Football Association of Wales loved him.
He said all the right things.
He said, for example, that the League of Wales (the FAW's pride and joy) would produce players for the international team. That alone probably landed him the job.
And, in fact, he even picked one for an early international, though I don't think he got off the bench.
As a national manager, though, he was pretty damn dreadful.
The one incident I remember more than anything was when Wales had lost 7-1 to Holland.
He had made Vinny Jones the captain and his tactics and his team were well and truly crucified.
Wales fans I know were pretty suicidal. Their team seemed passionless, incompetent, clueless.
Two days later Gould turns up at a press conference... wearing a Max Wall wig on his head with 7-1 written on the forehead.
Of course, we wanted to take a picture of it and splash it across the newspaper.
"This is how your manager feels about a 7-1 defeat... he thinks it's a big joke."
But he whipped it off straight away and refused.
Understandable, because I think he would have been lynched.
Later, Wales went to Turkey in a qualifier and went down 6-4.
John Toshack, then a radio pundit, slammed Gould's gung-ho tactics.
Gould rang the Beeb and DEMANDED a right of reply, and the BBC allowed him to have his say on their Saturday Evening football programme.
He spent the whole episode referring to Toshack as "... that John Fashanu".
In press quarters he became known as GobbledeGould.
Other incidents with Wales included him turning up at a press conference with a black eye as rumours circulated he had been belted by John Hartson.
He claimed it was just a "typical bit of wrestling rough and tumble" and it was something he regularly instigated on the training ground.
Yeah, right.
And in another episode he managed to insult Nathan Blake over an incident with a bib which the player claimed was a racial slur.
Yet, for Teflon Bobby, nothing sticks.
He STILL managed to get another job.
Sam Hammam, his old boss at Wimbledon, put him in charge of Cardiff City.
He did nothing there, and the Welsh fans hadn't forgotten him making their national team a bigger laughing stock than it was already, so he didn't last long.
Since then my Welsh mates have all been warning me: He'll be back at Rovers one day.
Well, he is. In a manner of speaking.
He is launching his book at a dinner.
Oh, I do hope that the directors don't get speaking to him for too long.
I really hope they don't listen to his "take" on how things could be better at the Mem.
I hope as soon as he comes near they thrust breadsticks in their ears and walk in the other direction.
Because the old charmer will work his magic.
And one day my nightmare may come true...
At 3 in the morning I find that my throat is dry and the bedclothes are soaked.
I try to search my brain for what has scared me to such an extent that I am frozen rigid, eyes wide, shaking uncontrollably.
Then I remember the dream. Well, not a dream, more my worst nightmare.
It is of a Bristol Rovers chairman proudly announcing that after much persuasion they have invited Bobby Gould to take charge of the Gas once again.
Then I realise it is a dream, but it still keeps me awake for the rest of the night.
Because I know Gould still lives in Portishead, just around the corner.
And various people have spotted him shopping in supermarkets in close proximity to the Mem.
Oh my word.
Younger souls may wonder why I have such an irrational fear of this man stepping back into the hot seat. I'll try to explain...
I am sure that to his nearest and dearest Bobby Gould is a lovely man, cherished by his family, idolised by those near and dear- and possibly still revered by fans of Wimbledon FC.
I know the press adore him because he is always there with a friendly smile, a little joke and a ready quote.
He can charm the birds off the trees, and certainly football chairmen have fallen over themselves to put him in charge of their clubs.
He is a political animal. He says exactly what people want to hear.
And out of every single manager the Gas have had... I hate him the most.
Logical? Well, it doesn't have to be really.
That's the nature of being a football fan.
You don't need any cast-iron reasons to hate someone, you just do.
But I'll try to explain it to those youngsters who - on reading the publicity for his new book 24-carat Gould - think he sounds like a really decent sort and a good football manager.
My first memories of Bobby Gould were when he was playing for Arsenal against Swindon Town in the 1969 League Cup final.
Arsenal lost 3-1 and Gould scored their goal.
At the end of the game he cried.
It was there for all to see.
A show for the gutted Gunners fans? I think so.
Because he is an extremely good actor.
We loved him when he joined Rovers and scored a hat-trick against Blackburn on his debut.
And, of course, he said he loved us.
Eventually he became our manager, his first job. And he did ok, without pulling up any trees.
Then, as soon as his old club Coventry City came knocking, he left us. Just like that.
We're talking about the kind of guy who kisses your badge one minute... then shoots off to another club as soon as a better offer comes along - without a glance back.
In the wisdom of our board he later came back to the club, and I know many of us weren't happy about that.
You see, football isn't like any other job where you can just up sticks and move because you've had a better offer... then return when it doesn't work out.
Again, he didn't achieve much.
We needed a tactically astute manager who would take us to another level, win us promotion or some silverware.
But Gould was more Ossie Ardiles and Kevin Keegan than Brian Clough. Let's throw everything forward and hope for the best.
He tried to woo the fans over, yes. He even got the club to pay for Gasheads to travel and support the team in an away game at Walsall.
I think we lost 5-1, but those with better memories can put me right on that.
Then, when a better offer came along, he buggered off again.
Wimbledon. His one REAL success story.
He took them to the FA Cup final and a fairytale win over Liverpool.
The Crazy Gang run by a self-proclaimed "Crazy" guy.
Not bad, eh?
Except I have a sneaky suspicion that success was down to the fact Don Howe was his first team coach.
Still, that's the job of a manager - to bring in the best people for the job, so I guess he has every right to take the credit for that.
And he will.
He tries to take the credit for everything.
The number of times I have heard him babbling on about his "successes" at Bristol Rovers, how he discovered and developed this player or that player, how he changed things around so brilliantly for us. How, any time we get a modicum of success, he somehow managed to play a part in this.
This is his modus operandi. He waits for people to forget his mistakes, the number of times he opened his mouth and put his foot in it, and sprinkles fairy dust over everything.
He rewrites his past better than anyone I know.
But my association with Gould does not just extent to my time as a Gashead.
I was working as a journalist in Wales when he took the job as their national manager.
And, yes, the press loved him.
The Football Association of Wales loved him.
He said all the right things.
He said, for example, that the League of Wales (the FAW's pride and joy) would produce players for the international team. That alone probably landed him the job.
And, in fact, he even picked one for an early international, though I don't think he got off the bench.
As a national manager, though, he was pretty damn dreadful.
The one incident I remember more than anything was when Wales had lost 7-1 to Holland.
He had made Vinny Jones the captain and his tactics and his team were well and truly crucified.
Wales fans I know were pretty suicidal. Their team seemed passionless, incompetent, clueless.
Two days later Gould turns up at a press conference... wearing a Max Wall wig on his head with 7-1 written on the forehead.
Of course, we wanted to take a picture of it and splash it across the newspaper.
"This is how your manager feels about a 7-1 defeat... he thinks it's a big joke."
But he whipped it off straight away and refused.
Understandable, because I think he would have been lynched.
Later, Wales went to Turkey in a qualifier and went down 6-4.
John Toshack, then a radio pundit, slammed Gould's gung-ho tactics.
Gould rang the Beeb and DEMANDED a right of reply, and the BBC allowed him to have his say on their Saturday Evening football programme.
He spent the whole episode referring to Toshack as "... that John Fashanu".
In press quarters he became known as GobbledeGould.
Other incidents with Wales included him turning up at a press conference with a black eye as rumours circulated he had been belted by John Hartson.
He claimed it was just a "typical bit of wrestling rough and tumble" and it was something he regularly instigated on the training ground.
Yeah, right.
And in another episode he managed to insult Nathan Blake over an incident with a bib which the player claimed was a racial slur.
Yet, for Teflon Bobby, nothing sticks.
He STILL managed to get another job.
Sam Hammam, his old boss at Wimbledon, put him in charge of Cardiff City.
He did nothing there, and the Welsh fans hadn't forgotten him making their national team a bigger laughing stock than it was already, so he didn't last long.
Since then my Welsh mates have all been warning me: He'll be back at Rovers one day.
Well, he is. In a manner of speaking.
He is launching his book at a dinner.
Oh, I do hope that the directors don't get speaking to him for too long.
I really hope they don't listen to his "take" on how things could be better at the Mem.
I hope as soon as he comes near they thrust breadsticks in their ears and walk in the other direction.
Because the old charmer will work his magic.
And one day my nightmare may come true...
Sunday 3 October 2010
Field of Dreams
SOMETIMES, as a Gashead, something brilliant happens.
Something so unexpected, so heart warming and so utterly unpredictable that you go around with a smile on your face for the whole weekend.
And yesterday was exactly one of those days.
Yorkshire club with new ground, pots of money, good players and high expectations 0 Bristol Rovers 1.
It was such a busy day yesterday in the offices of the national sunday newspaper where I work that only occasionally could I get a glimpse of Sky's Soccer Saturday as it warbled on in the background.
By half time we were still drawing 0-0 at Huddersfield, and going into the final minutes nothing much had changed.
Fine, I thought. After the abberation that was our home game against Tranmere in midweek, a draw was the best I could expect - yet there was still a nagging feeling in my mind that we might leave the Galpharm empty handed, scuppered by a late goal which would maroon us at the lower end of League One.
At around 4.40pm I took a seat in front of the box and started to scribble down some of the scores from our division. After all, it was my job to put together the League One page for Sunday's edition and I wanted to make sure I had them right.
Carlisle 0 Peterborough 1 (the Posh are beginning to gear up for a real Promotion push),
Dagenham 2, Swindon Town 1 (a bit of a surprise to say the least, particularly after our 3-0 win at the same ground a few weeks back), Notts County 0 Sheffield Wednesday 2 (yeah, thought it was about time the big guns in our division got going)...
As I bent my head to scribble that particular result down on a piece of paper one of my colleagues shouted out "Rovers".
I was literally petrified to look at the screen. Had we lost to a last-minute strike?
Had a player been sent off?
What?
I finally raised my head.
And stared in disbelief.
It was Bristol Rovers that was in red on the scoreline at the bottom of the screen.
Red, for those who have been stuck on a dessert Island and never had the pleasure of a satellite dish, refers to the team that has scored.
In brackets, afterwards... (Will Hoskins 90).
I couldn't contain myself. "Yaaaaaaaah! Hoskins!!!!"
My boss gave me an icy glare.
I didn't care.
Then the final score popped up.
We'd won. Away at Huddersfield. With the last kick of the game.
And, oh day of days, at the same time Bristol City had crashed 3-0 at home to Norwich and were currently lying precisely BOTTOM of the Championship.
You know Bristol City: that big club which has spent all that money, signed the England goalkeeper and every striker outside the Premiership, and is currently trying to drum up support to build a new stadium on the grounds that "it will help Bristol's bid to bring a World Cup game to the west country in 2018". Yeah, right. No self-interest involved there, then.
And all the time that little ditty so beloved of Gasheads is circling around and around in my brain.
"Never felt more like singing the Blues, when Rovers win and the City lose..."
It's payback time.
Time to have a go at the Saints supporter and all his mates who made it pretty clear to me that they had money on "that good Bristol team" to win promotion this season.
Time to take the mickey out of the guys in the office who had backed Huddersfield to notch up a convincing home win.
Time to tell the world: "Yeah, that's right I'm a Bristol Rovers fan. A Gashead. A true blue. And this is how it feels when we defy the odds and win a game of football."
The smile stayed on my face for the whole night.
Even when I was stuck in pouring rain in a traffic jam in central London for an hour and a half.
Even when, just before Membury Services, my car decided to start jumping around like a Kangeroo on crack.
Even when I pulled into the services and rang the AA, who kindly told me that someone would be with me in an hour and a half - or maybe later.
And even when I finally crawled into the house with the clock clicking around to 4am.
Of course, though my bed was beckoning, it was straight onto the BBC I-player to watch the Football League show and savour the glorious moment.
And it didn't disappoint.
Hoskins, on the left, performed one, two, three stepovers, cut inside and curled a beauty into the bottom corner. Get in.
And now, though we've got a home game against Aldershot in the PaintPot Trophy at the Mem on Tuesday, as far as league football goes I can savour this moment for eight days!
Because we don't play another game until we travel to Swindon on Monday week, due to the international break.
Wonderful.
Why am I a Gashead?
Because the plain truth is, if it wasn't for all the disappointments, I don't think the highs could feel as good as this.
Something so unexpected, so heart warming and so utterly unpredictable that you go around with a smile on your face for the whole weekend.
And yesterday was exactly one of those days.
Yorkshire club with new ground, pots of money, good players and high expectations 0 Bristol Rovers 1.
It was such a busy day yesterday in the offices of the national sunday newspaper where I work that only occasionally could I get a glimpse of Sky's Soccer Saturday as it warbled on in the background.
By half time we were still drawing 0-0 at Huddersfield, and going into the final minutes nothing much had changed.
Fine, I thought. After the abberation that was our home game against Tranmere in midweek, a draw was the best I could expect - yet there was still a nagging feeling in my mind that we might leave the Galpharm empty handed, scuppered by a late goal which would maroon us at the lower end of League One.
At around 4.40pm I took a seat in front of the box and started to scribble down some of the scores from our division. After all, it was my job to put together the League One page for Sunday's edition and I wanted to make sure I had them right.
Carlisle 0 Peterborough 1 (the Posh are beginning to gear up for a real Promotion push),
Dagenham 2, Swindon Town 1 (a bit of a surprise to say the least, particularly after our 3-0 win at the same ground a few weeks back), Notts County 0 Sheffield Wednesday 2 (yeah, thought it was about time the big guns in our division got going)...
As I bent my head to scribble that particular result down on a piece of paper one of my colleagues shouted out "Rovers".
I was literally petrified to look at the screen. Had we lost to a last-minute strike?
Had a player been sent off?
What?
I finally raised my head.
And stared in disbelief.
It was Bristol Rovers that was in red on the scoreline at the bottom of the screen.
Red, for those who have been stuck on a dessert Island and never had the pleasure of a satellite dish, refers to the team that has scored.
In brackets, afterwards... (Will Hoskins 90).
I couldn't contain myself. "Yaaaaaaaah! Hoskins!!!!"
My boss gave me an icy glare.
I didn't care.
Then the final score popped up.
We'd won. Away at Huddersfield. With the last kick of the game.
And, oh day of days, at the same time Bristol City had crashed 3-0 at home to Norwich and were currently lying precisely BOTTOM of the Championship.
You know Bristol City: that big club which has spent all that money, signed the England goalkeeper and every striker outside the Premiership, and is currently trying to drum up support to build a new stadium on the grounds that "it will help Bristol's bid to bring a World Cup game to the west country in 2018". Yeah, right. No self-interest involved there, then.
And all the time that little ditty so beloved of Gasheads is circling around and around in my brain.
"Never felt more like singing the Blues, when Rovers win and the City lose..."
It's payback time.
Time to have a go at the Saints supporter and all his mates who made it pretty clear to me that they had money on "that good Bristol team" to win promotion this season.
Time to take the mickey out of the guys in the office who had backed Huddersfield to notch up a convincing home win.
Time to tell the world: "Yeah, that's right I'm a Bristol Rovers fan. A Gashead. A true blue. And this is how it feels when we defy the odds and win a game of football."
The smile stayed on my face for the whole night.
Even when I was stuck in pouring rain in a traffic jam in central London for an hour and a half.
Even when, just before Membury Services, my car decided to start jumping around like a Kangeroo on crack.
Even when I pulled into the services and rang the AA, who kindly told me that someone would be with me in an hour and a half - or maybe later.
And even when I finally crawled into the house with the clock clicking around to 4am.
Of course, though my bed was beckoning, it was straight onto the BBC I-player to watch the Football League show and savour the glorious moment.
And it didn't disappoint.
Hoskins, on the left, performed one, two, three stepovers, cut inside and curled a beauty into the bottom corner. Get in.
And now, though we've got a home game against Aldershot in the PaintPot Trophy at the Mem on Tuesday, as far as league football goes I can savour this moment for eight days!
Because we don't play another game until we travel to Swindon on Monday week, due to the international break.
Wonderful.
Why am I a Gashead?
Because the plain truth is, if it wasn't for all the disappointments, I don't think the highs could feel as good as this.
Friday 1 October 2010
Ground Zero
Pride of Bristol 0 Impoverished poor relations of Merseyside with nine fit players and assorted schoolboys 1.
And it has taken me three days to find the words after the utter disappointment of my first visit to the Mem this season.
Why oh why, do we do it to ourselves?
Why do we let ourselves get carried away with optimism, when in the back of our minds is the nagging suspicion it will end in tears?
Two decent wins in a row and we were on a roll. We only had to turn up to the Memorial Stadium on Tuesday to get another three points and push on towards the League One summit.
At least, that was the way most of us viewed the home game against rock-bottom Tranmere.
I was so excited about getting my first glimpse of our new team.
The summer signings were starting to gell, we had a target man, 11 fit players and the confidence that back-to-back victories brings.
And for 20 minutes we were good - no argument. We looked slick, skillful and capable of tearing apart the opposition at will. But we didn't, and slowly the doubts crept in.
As I stood watching the rain come down with my mate Haydn and his stepdad Ron we kept giving knowing looks to each other: Here we go again.
After all, we had been here so many times before. Last year and a 1-0 home defeat to wobbling Walsall springs to mind, just after we seemed to be ironing out some of our problems.
When the Tranmere goal went in just before half-time I swear you could hear the collective sigh on the M32 sliproad.
Perhaps, some would argue, we expect too much of ourselves?
Certainly, there are those fans who think we are a mid-table League One team and are punching our weight. We should be happy to sit there with a record of won 3, drawn 3, lost 3.
We should be wallowing in our mediocrity.
I'm sorry, but I don't share that view.
There was enough evidence on Tuesday that in new boys Will Hoskins, Gary Sawyer and Wayne Brown (briefly) we have players capable of matching some of the best in the division.
What we didn't seem to have was a leader on the pitch, able to rally the troops after our early domination faded.
Or some good, straight forward nous.
Tranmere were there to fight for the points. They may be managed by a promoted physio, but they were well organised and ready to battle for every ball.
In contrast, for long periods the Gas didn't seem to have any constructive plan.
Perhaps the thing that annoyed me most was that at times we seemed outnumbered in midfield, and this should be where a manager earns his corn.
For all the scribbling on bits of paper that our boss Paul Trollope did during the first half, at no stage did he try to change our approach.
The one substitution he made - Brown for captain Stuart Campbell - was a like-for-like change in the middle of the park. There was no attempt to even-up the battle in midfield, to withdraw one of our three-pronged attack in favour of an additional body in the engine room. I would like to know why, but I don't think the answer will be forthcoming.
So on we go - to high-flyers Huddersfield tomorrow and then our near neighbours Swindon on Monday week. Two very tough fixtures.
I guess the one hope I will cling to is that we are consistent in our inconsistency.
We don't have a clue how we are going to perform, so why should the opposition?
It's a very thin straw to clutch at, but I will be clinging to it for grim death when we travel to Yorkshire tomorrow.
And it has taken me three days to find the words after the utter disappointment of my first visit to the Mem this season.
Why oh why, do we do it to ourselves?
Why do we let ourselves get carried away with optimism, when in the back of our minds is the nagging suspicion it will end in tears?
Two decent wins in a row and we were on a roll. We only had to turn up to the Memorial Stadium on Tuesday to get another three points and push on towards the League One summit.
At least, that was the way most of us viewed the home game against rock-bottom Tranmere.
I was so excited about getting my first glimpse of our new team.
The summer signings were starting to gell, we had a target man, 11 fit players and the confidence that back-to-back victories brings.
And for 20 minutes we were good - no argument. We looked slick, skillful and capable of tearing apart the opposition at will. But we didn't, and slowly the doubts crept in.
As I stood watching the rain come down with my mate Haydn and his stepdad Ron we kept giving knowing looks to each other: Here we go again.
After all, we had been here so many times before. Last year and a 1-0 home defeat to wobbling Walsall springs to mind, just after we seemed to be ironing out some of our problems.
When the Tranmere goal went in just before half-time I swear you could hear the collective sigh on the M32 sliproad.
Perhaps, some would argue, we expect too much of ourselves?
Certainly, there are those fans who think we are a mid-table League One team and are punching our weight. We should be happy to sit there with a record of won 3, drawn 3, lost 3.
We should be wallowing in our mediocrity.
I'm sorry, but I don't share that view.
There was enough evidence on Tuesday that in new boys Will Hoskins, Gary Sawyer and Wayne Brown (briefly) we have players capable of matching some of the best in the division.
What we didn't seem to have was a leader on the pitch, able to rally the troops after our early domination faded.
Or some good, straight forward nous.
Tranmere were there to fight for the points. They may be managed by a promoted physio, but they were well organised and ready to battle for every ball.
In contrast, for long periods the Gas didn't seem to have any constructive plan.
Perhaps the thing that annoyed me most was that at times we seemed outnumbered in midfield, and this should be where a manager earns his corn.
For all the scribbling on bits of paper that our boss Paul Trollope did during the first half, at no stage did he try to change our approach.
The one substitution he made - Brown for captain Stuart Campbell - was a like-for-like change in the middle of the park. There was no attempt to even-up the battle in midfield, to withdraw one of our three-pronged attack in favour of an additional body in the engine room. I would like to know why, but I don't think the answer will be forthcoming.
So on we go - to high-flyers Huddersfield tomorrow and then our near neighbours Swindon on Monday week. Two very tough fixtures.
I guess the one hope I will cling to is that we are consistent in our inconsistency.
We don't have a clue how we are going to perform, so why should the opposition?
It's a very thin straw to clutch at, but I will be clinging to it for grim death when we travel to Yorkshire tomorrow.
Tuesday 28 September 2010
Home comforts
EIGHT games.
Eight games in which I've gone from the depths of despair to the heights of elation.
Eight games in which my nails have been bitten raw, my fingers permanently disfigured from being crossed for so long, my blood pressure up, my throat sore.
Eight games into a 46-game season.
And tonight.
Tonight's the night.
Tonight, I'll actually be able to SEE my beloved Gas for the first time this season.
No doubt I'll have a few more notable injuries by the time the final whistle goes in our home game against Tranmere.
A game that will show us exactly where we are going.
Because we are finally on a roll.
We have had back-to-back victories, turning over the might of Dagenham and Redbridge and Notts County.
We have jumped to the lofty heights of 13th in the League One table.
And a win at home over the bottom team in our Division, Merseyside's poor relation who have a physio as manager and a pretty dire away record, will put us up into the top half of the table.
Ah, home. As Gasheads we have led a pretty nomadic existence.
I count it that we've had FOUR home venues over the last 40 years, but I accept I might have missed some.
I grew up on the terraces at Eastville in the 70s.
At the time it boasted the fact that it was one of only two stadiums in the country.
The other was Wembley.
Unfortunately, like most things Rovers, we didn't own it - only rented it from the greyhound company.
But it was our ground, surrounded by a huge dogtrack/speedway track, with a vast open end for away supporters and a famous home area nestling under a roof with a huge sign on the front, which displayed a number of clocks, plus all sorts of other information.
Not about the football, about the dogs.
A big sign on the left hand side of it said that the display was the Totalizer.
This was the Tote End.
I spent a couple of seasons on the Tote in my early teens when I began going to Rovers games with my mates. I remember it being packed out for our first game in the old Second Division after Don Megson's Smash n Grab side were promoted - a 0-0 draw against Notts County on a very hot, sticky day.
Later I graduated to the North Enclosure, but at some stage I stood on every terrace and sat in every stand at that ground.
But it didn't matter where you were, you could always detect the faint whiff of gas in the air from the Gasometers behind the Tote.
Hence, Gasheads.
We lost Eastville because the dog company put the rent sky high, but even before we left I remember a short time, after one of the stands mysteriously burnt down, that we had to start the season at the hated Ashton Gate - Trashton.
By my recollection we played about five 'home' games there under the ex-England fullback Terry Cooper - and didn't win one. And people from outside the area often asked why we don't "ground share".
It is an alien place, the wrong side of the city. It belongs to someone else. I don't even like going near it. I refused point blank to even take my wife to a wedding fayre there before we completed our nuptials.
For a Gashead, it is a cursed place.
It was even before that season - in which, incidentally, we were relegated - and it is even more so now.
Before we left Eastville, by the way, I had never heard of us being called Gasheads. I think it came about much later, and was a way of keeping our spiritual home in our hearts.
In fact, when we left Eastville we spent a long and fruitful spell at Twerton Park, home of Bath City. Or Trumpton as it became known.
Gerry Francis built a side to take us to promotion, famously finishing as Division Three champions - one place above City. Our most famous victory was the 3-0 home win over City on May 2, 1990, which secured us the title ahead of our neighbours - a day still etched on the memory of every Rovers fan.
Then, after a long spell in exile, we finally came home. Back to Bristol.
Just up the Muller Road from Eastville - which is now a retail park - we settled in at the home of our rugby playing cousins Bristol RFC at the Memorial Ground, or Mem.
And that's where I'll be going tonight.
It isn't perfect, far from it.
It has taken a while even to resemble a football league ground.
But we've made it our home and even bought it off the rugby club.
Now there is talk of developing it into a brand, spanking new all-seater stadium.
Then again there has been talk of us developing a new stadium since I was 10 years old.
I'll believe it when I see it.
That doesn't mean I will particularly like it.
It's progress I guess.
But tonight I will enjoy standing shoulder-to-shoulder on a terrace for 90 minutes alongside this diverse and unique bunch of supporters they call Gasheads. Tonight I will probably be with my mate and his son on the family terrace.
I'll enjoy the banter, a pasty and probably a good shout at the ref.
And hopefully, with the Gas heading for three more points and a place in the top half of the table, I'll be joining in with a chorus of our song, Goodnight Irene.
Eight games in which I've gone from the depths of despair to the heights of elation.
Eight games in which my nails have been bitten raw, my fingers permanently disfigured from being crossed for so long, my blood pressure up, my throat sore.
Eight games into a 46-game season.
And tonight.
Tonight's the night.
Tonight, I'll actually be able to SEE my beloved Gas for the first time this season.
No doubt I'll have a few more notable injuries by the time the final whistle goes in our home game against Tranmere.
A game that will show us exactly where we are going.
Because we are finally on a roll.
We have had back-to-back victories, turning over the might of Dagenham and Redbridge and Notts County.
We have jumped to the lofty heights of 13th in the League One table.
And a win at home over the bottom team in our Division, Merseyside's poor relation who have a physio as manager and a pretty dire away record, will put us up into the top half of the table.
Ah, home. As Gasheads we have led a pretty nomadic existence.
I count it that we've had FOUR home venues over the last 40 years, but I accept I might have missed some.
I grew up on the terraces at Eastville in the 70s.
At the time it boasted the fact that it was one of only two stadiums in the country.
The other was Wembley.
Unfortunately, like most things Rovers, we didn't own it - only rented it from the greyhound company.
But it was our ground, surrounded by a huge dogtrack/speedway track, with a vast open end for away supporters and a famous home area nestling under a roof with a huge sign on the front, which displayed a number of clocks, plus all sorts of other information.
Not about the football, about the dogs.
A big sign on the left hand side of it said that the display was the Totalizer.
This was the Tote End.
I spent a couple of seasons on the Tote in my early teens when I began going to Rovers games with my mates. I remember it being packed out for our first game in the old Second Division after Don Megson's Smash n Grab side were promoted - a 0-0 draw against Notts County on a very hot, sticky day.
Later I graduated to the North Enclosure, but at some stage I stood on every terrace and sat in every stand at that ground.
But it didn't matter where you were, you could always detect the faint whiff of gas in the air from the Gasometers behind the Tote.
Hence, Gasheads.
We lost Eastville because the dog company put the rent sky high, but even before we left I remember a short time, after one of the stands mysteriously burnt down, that we had to start the season at the hated Ashton Gate - Trashton.
By my recollection we played about five 'home' games there under the ex-England fullback Terry Cooper - and didn't win one. And people from outside the area often asked why we don't "ground share".
It is an alien place, the wrong side of the city. It belongs to someone else. I don't even like going near it. I refused point blank to even take my wife to a wedding fayre there before we completed our nuptials.
For a Gashead, it is a cursed place.
It was even before that season - in which, incidentally, we were relegated - and it is even more so now.
Before we left Eastville, by the way, I had never heard of us being called Gasheads. I think it came about much later, and was a way of keeping our spiritual home in our hearts.
In fact, when we left Eastville we spent a long and fruitful spell at Twerton Park, home of Bath City. Or Trumpton as it became known.
Gerry Francis built a side to take us to promotion, famously finishing as Division Three champions - one place above City. Our most famous victory was the 3-0 home win over City on May 2, 1990, which secured us the title ahead of our neighbours - a day still etched on the memory of every Rovers fan.
Then, after a long spell in exile, we finally came home. Back to Bristol.
Just up the Muller Road from Eastville - which is now a retail park - we settled in at the home of our rugby playing cousins Bristol RFC at the Memorial Ground, or Mem.
And that's where I'll be going tonight.
It isn't perfect, far from it.
It has taken a while even to resemble a football league ground.
But we've made it our home and even bought it off the rugby club.
Now there is talk of developing it into a brand, spanking new all-seater stadium.
Then again there has been talk of us developing a new stadium since I was 10 years old.
I'll believe it when I see it.
That doesn't mean I will particularly like it.
It's progress I guess.
But tonight I will enjoy standing shoulder-to-shoulder on a terrace for 90 minutes alongside this diverse and unique bunch of supporters they call Gasheads. Tonight I will probably be with my mate and his son on the family terrace.
I'll enjoy the banter, a pasty and probably a good shout at the ref.
And hopefully, with the Gas heading for three more points and a place in the top half of the table, I'll be joining in with a chorus of our song, Goodnight Irene.
Tuesday 21 September 2010
The first football-playing Skinhead
THE great TV chat show host Michael Parkinson always used to go on about one player who, to him, epitomised Barnsley and why he loved the club. The guy was a raw, tough-tackling half back called Skinner Normanton.
According to the obituary that Parkinson wrote for The Times, Skinner played for Barnsley between 1947 and 1953 and achieved legendary status. He was the hard man of the side, providing protection for the ball carrying, more creative midfielders.
He became such a legendary figure that there was a Skinner Normanton Appreciation Society in Kuala Lumpar, and mothers used to threaten their children that if they didn't behave they would "Send for Skinner".
Parky says: "There wasn't much of him, but every bit counted. He was as relentless as a heat-seeking missile in the tackle".
He suggested that Barnsley should name a stand after him because "it would be a constant reminder that no matter how much we merchandise the modern game we must always remember what we are selling.
"Nowadays they talk about image. There was a time, when Skinner was a lad, when it had soul."
The reason I mention Skinner is that I, too, had a hero in that mould during my younger days supporting the Gas.
To me, he was the soul of Bristol Rovers, a player who wore his heart on his sleeve, a Gashead through and through, who remained loyal for 13 years and made 362 appearances.
His name was Frankie Prince.
What I remember most about Frankie - and this shouldn't read as an obituary because I imagine he's still alive, but have no idea what he is doing now - was that he looked like the first-ever football playing skinhead. He had tight cropped hair and it always appeared that while everyone else was wearing the latest fancy football footwear, he was playing in bovver boots. Not surprisingly he wasn't blessed with pace.
He certainly put himself about a bit, though, and at the time there was a regular argument between Rovers and City fans over who was the hardest - Frankie or their midfielder Gerry Gow, who went on to earn a big-money move to Manchester City, where he played in the 1981 Cup final which Spurs won in a replay thanks to Ricky Villa's wonder goal.
I don't think they ever organised a boxing match between Prince and Gow, but it would have sold a hell of a lot of tickets.
Frankie had a softer side, too, from what I understand. Apparently he once bought the lady who swept the terraces a cuddly toy Koala Bear as a present.
I also found an old diary when packing to move house in which I had noted he actually gave me and some of my mates a lift home from a Rovers game once when the bus failed to arrive on the Stapleton Road. I'm amazed I can't remember it, but perhaps that is why he has stuck in my mind as my all-time Gas hero.
A Welshman from Penarth, he was an apprentice in 1967 and I imagine he was a product of our very successful South Wales nursery. It's a shame we don't have one now.
But I mention Frankie simply because we have another young Welshman playing for us at the moment who has had plenty of critics, but is starting to win them around.
Byron Anthony is happy to play in any position the management require of him, and has been getting top reports this season. On Saturday, taking a bullet for the team, he turned out at left back, even though he has been performing well on the right and in the centre of defence.
With club loyalty as it is these days, I doubt Byron will ever become the kind of hero to youngsters that Frankie is to me.
But I hope he continues to improve, wins around the boo boys and stays loyal so that one day he will be considered "a true Gashead".
According to the obituary that Parkinson wrote for The Times, Skinner played for Barnsley between 1947 and 1953 and achieved legendary status. He was the hard man of the side, providing protection for the ball carrying, more creative midfielders.
He became such a legendary figure that there was a Skinner Normanton Appreciation Society in Kuala Lumpar, and mothers used to threaten their children that if they didn't behave they would "Send for Skinner".
Parky says: "There wasn't much of him, but every bit counted. He was as relentless as a heat-seeking missile in the tackle".
He suggested that Barnsley should name a stand after him because "it would be a constant reminder that no matter how much we merchandise the modern game we must always remember what we are selling.
"Nowadays they talk about image. There was a time, when Skinner was a lad, when it had soul."
The reason I mention Skinner is that I, too, had a hero in that mould during my younger days supporting the Gas.
To me, he was the soul of Bristol Rovers, a player who wore his heart on his sleeve, a Gashead through and through, who remained loyal for 13 years and made 362 appearances.
His name was Frankie Prince.
What I remember most about Frankie - and this shouldn't read as an obituary because I imagine he's still alive, but have no idea what he is doing now - was that he looked like the first-ever football playing skinhead. He had tight cropped hair and it always appeared that while everyone else was wearing the latest fancy football footwear, he was playing in bovver boots. Not surprisingly he wasn't blessed with pace.
He certainly put himself about a bit, though, and at the time there was a regular argument between Rovers and City fans over who was the hardest - Frankie or their midfielder Gerry Gow, who went on to earn a big-money move to Manchester City, where he played in the 1981 Cup final which Spurs won in a replay thanks to Ricky Villa's wonder goal.
I don't think they ever organised a boxing match between Prince and Gow, but it would have sold a hell of a lot of tickets.
Frankie had a softer side, too, from what I understand. Apparently he once bought the lady who swept the terraces a cuddly toy Koala Bear as a present.
I also found an old diary when packing to move house in which I had noted he actually gave me and some of my mates a lift home from a Rovers game once when the bus failed to arrive on the Stapleton Road. I'm amazed I can't remember it, but perhaps that is why he has stuck in my mind as my all-time Gas hero.
A Welshman from Penarth, he was an apprentice in 1967 and I imagine he was a product of our very successful South Wales nursery. It's a shame we don't have one now.
But I mention Frankie simply because we have another young Welshman playing for us at the moment who has had plenty of critics, but is starting to win them around.
Byron Anthony is happy to play in any position the management require of him, and has been getting top reports this season. On Saturday, taking a bullet for the team, he turned out at left back, even though he has been performing well on the right and in the centre of defence.
With club loyalty as it is these days, I doubt Byron will ever become the kind of hero to youngsters that Frankie is to me.
But I hope he continues to improve, wins around the boo boys and stays loyal so that one day he will be considered "a true Gashead".
Monday 20 September 2010
Divine Intervention
DRIVING to work on Saturday I heard that a lot of the roads in Central London were closed. Glad to see the Met Police were anticipating a lot of travelling Gasheads for our game against Dagenham and Redbridge, I thought.
Actually, it was because the Pope was in town, but we were lucky to get some divine intervention ourselves.
It came in the form of Jeff Hughes, a player who, so far this season, has been taking a lot of flak on the message boards for his performances this season. Someone even said his displays, along with those of our highly rated young midfielder Chris Lines, had amounted to "a comedy show".
And the general concensus seemed to be that the two of them should be dropped for our game against the Daggers.
Well, who's laughing now? Ninety minutes later, and Rovers have won 3-0 to land their first success on away soil.
It's a fantastic result.
And what is more, Hughesy grabbed a hat-trick.
Thank goodness our manager Paul Trollope doesn't listen to what we fans have to say.
I guess Trolls, who hasn't been Mr Popular himself of late after a pretty ropey start to the season, will survive or fall by being his own man.
Fair play - that, at least, shows he has some managerial credentials.
I've known men in charge of teams before who have reacted to just about everything the fans have to say, with dire consequences.
Management by Committee simply does not work.
As an example, I remember an Irish winger called Miah Dennehy who used to play for the Gas. He had been booted out by Brian Clough at Nottingham Forest to be replaced by a certain John Robertson.
He started ok, but pretty soon we were getting a bit fed up with his inconsistent performances.
One Boxing Day 1978 I turned up to watch the Gas in a League game and Miah was playing. Well, in truth, he was wobbling around the pitch looking every bit like he had a serious hangover from Christmas Day.
Me and my mates all agreed - the manager should take him off. He was useless, just useless.
No doubt we shouted similar messages to the dug out.
The game ended something like 4-2 to the Gas, the manager ignored us and Miah weighed in with a hat-trick. *
He got the man of the match award even though, to this day, I still maintain he had been abysmal for the majority of the 90 minutes.
Still. What does the Dagenham result mean to my beloved Gas? Not that much, taken by itself.
The three points came against a side who had managed just one win this season after being promoted to the lofty heights of League One.
They don't have the same resources as us, and were only playing non-league football a short time ago.
But, to be fair, they had been unbeaten at home so far this season and if they are to survive under the wily management of ex-Gas assistant boss John Still they know it is at Victoria Road (or the catchily renamed The London Borough of Barking and Dagenham Stadium) where they will have to get the majority of their points.
I think a lot of teams will find it pretty hard travelling to this outpost of East London and achieving the same kind of result. After all, as the joke goes, you are up against two teams - Dagenham AND Redbridge.
Key for Rovers and Trolls now is the confidence that this result will have given the team, and the hope that they can carry it on into two consecutive home games against Notts County, another promoted team, and struggling Tranmere.
This division looks pretty tight at the moment and even the sides most predicted would be charging away with it - Southampton and Sheffield Wednesday - have had indifferent starts to the season. Two wins and we will find ourselves among the early pacesetters, two poor results and we will be down among the dead men.
Intriguing, but at least this week I'll be walking around with a smile on my face.
Might even find myself praying to the great redeemer Jeff Hughes to produce a few more miraculous displays.
*Anyone remember this game, know who it was against, or can enlighten me on whether I've got the facts right? Please let me know
Actually, it was because the Pope was in town, but we were lucky to get some divine intervention ourselves.
It came in the form of Jeff Hughes, a player who, so far this season, has been taking a lot of flak on the message boards for his performances this season. Someone even said his displays, along with those of our highly rated young midfielder Chris Lines, had amounted to "a comedy show".
And the general concensus seemed to be that the two of them should be dropped for our game against the Daggers.
Well, who's laughing now? Ninety minutes later, and Rovers have won 3-0 to land their first success on away soil.
It's a fantastic result.
And what is more, Hughesy grabbed a hat-trick.
Thank goodness our manager Paul Trollope doesn't listen to what we fans have to say.
I guess Trolls, who hasn't been Mr Popular himself of late after a pretty ropey start to the season, will survive or fall by being his own man.
Fair play - that, at least, shows he has some managerial credentials.
I've known men in charge of teams before who have reacted to just about everything the fans have to say, with dire consequences.
Management by Committee simply does not work.
As an example, I remember an Irish winger called Miah Dennehy who used to play for the Gas. He had been booted out by Brian Clough at Nottingham Forest to be replaced by a certain John Robertson.
He started ok, but pretty soon we were getting a bit fed up with his inconsistent performances.
One Boxing Day 1978 I turned up to watch the Gas in a League game and Miah was playing. Well, in truth, he was wobbling around the pitch looking every bit like he had a serious hangover from Christmas Day.
Me and my mates all agreed - the manager should take him off. He was useless, just useless.
No doubt we shouted similar messages to the dug out.
The game ended something like 4-2 to the Gas, the manager ignored us and Miah weighed in with a hat-trick. *
He got the man of the match award even though, to this day, I still maintain he had been abysmal for the majority of the 90 minutes.
Still. What does the Dagenham result mean to my beloved Gas? Not that much, taken by itself.
The three points came against a side who had managed just one win this season after being promoted to the lofty heights of League One.
They don't have the same resources as us, and were only playing non-league football a short time ago.
But, to be fair, they had been unbeaten at home so far this season and if they are to survive under the wily management of ex-Gas assistant boss John Still they know it is at Victoria Road (or the catchily renamed The London Borough of Barking and Dagenham Stadium) where they will have to get the majority of their points.
I think a lot of teams will find it pretty hard travelling to this outpost of East London and achieving the same kind of result. After all, as the joke goes, you are up against two teams - Dagenham AND Redbridge.
Key for Rovers and Trolls now is the confidence that this result will have given the team, and the hope that they can carry it on into two consecutive home games against Notts County, another promoted team, and struggling Tranmere.
This division looks pretty tight at the moment and even the sides most predicted would be charging away with it - Southampton and Sheffield Wednesday - have had indifferent starts to the season. Two wins and we will find ourselves among the early pacesetters, two poor results and we will be down among the dead men.
Intriguing, but at least this week I'll be walking around with a smile on my face.
Might even find myself praying to the great redeemer Jeff Hughes to produce a few more miraculous displays.
*Anyone remember this game, know who it was against, or can enlighten me on whether I've got the facts right? Please let me know
Saturday 11 September 2010
Tired excuses
LARGE European Metropolis 0, Miniscule Area of London famous only for a defunct factory that produced cheap and uncomfortable bedlinen 0.
Six games into the season and I thought our team might finally be "gelling".
But once again I was left biting my fingernails, just hoping we could get the better of Brentford.
Then, with 20 minutes still to go and the score nil-nil, we had a player sent off.
Our left back, Gary Sawyer, was shown the exit after picking up a second yellow card for a rash tackle.
After that, by all accounts, it was only our goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen who kept us in the game.
Two home points lost against the kind of team we should be beating.
It's ok for our manager Paul Trollope to suggest that we will struggle to beat teams like Southampton. After all, it wasn't long ago that they were in the Premiership, and they have had plenty of money thrown at them since they sank to our level.
But Brentford? Come on.
Having once again been trapped behind a desk unable to watch my beloved Gas, I needed to get the full story before throwing my toys out of the pram, trouncing Trolls and barracking the boys.
So where better to find out what really happened than to look on the fans forum of our team's website?
I logged on eagerly, just hoping that I could salvage some glimmer of hope. Drawing your home games against ordinary opposition and losing against the bigger clubs is, after all, a surefire recipe for relegation.
And what did I find? A post labelled "hooters".
I thought, for an instant, that I had been transported into the realms of ice hockey, and that a blaring claxon had been introduced to signal the end of the game. Maybe we had been deprived at the death by a hooter sounding as one of our strikers took aim at goal.
But, no. In my search for the truth, I was able to learn that the half-time entertainment supplied by our kids dance troupe the Blue Flames wasn't up to scratch and that perhaps we could invite the buxom barmaids from new American bar Hooters to turn up and bring cheer to our disgruntled fans.
Don't get me wrong. I am all in favour of the idea.
But these well-endowed ladies are hardly going to stop our alarming slide, provide us with the firepower up front (though some might argue) or shore up our weak backline. I can't see Chesty Cheryl or Big Jugs Jemima providing the incisive pass from midfield or coming off the subs bench to give our attack more impetus.
I know we are called Bristol Rovers, but it doesn't mean we need more Bristols.
Thankfully I did find more pertinent comments from fellow Gasheads which cheered me up a bit.
Apparently we played quite well in the first half, though never possessing the cutting edge required to bulldoze Brentford.
It was the second half that most fans took issue with - and there were only around five and a half thousand at the game. That's a worrying turnout with the season still relatively fresh.
What was even more worrying, though, was the comments of our manager.
Trolls thought we were quite adventurous in the first half. But what happened after the break?
Apparently some of our players looked "a bit tired".
Hang on. We have only played SEVEN GAMES this season.
Some would argue we didn't even turn up for two of them.
Tired?
I think I won't turn up for the afternoon at work next weekend on the basis that I felt "pretty tired" by lunchtime.
Sorry, but it sounds like a load of nonsense.
What sort of condition can these full-time professionals be in if they fancy a nap after just 45 minutes? After all, they hadn't played a game since the previous Saturday.
And how are they going to feel when the games come thick and fast - Saturday, Tuesday, Saturday, Tuesday - as they will later in the season?
I admit I am completely baffled by the goings-on at my favourite club.
Still, if they're that tired perhaps next time the same opposition turn up they can bring some of those polyester sheets leftover from the time Brentford Nylons went bust.
And come to think of it calling Hooters wouldn't be such a bad idea, either.
I am sure they could provide a few comfy pillows on which our puffed out players could rest their aching heads during the interval.
Six games into the season and I thought our team might finally be "gelling".
But once again I was left biting my fingernails, just hoping we could get the better of Brentford.
Then, with 20 minutes still to go and the score nil-nil, we had a player sent off.
Our left back, Gary Sawyer, was shown the exit after picking up a second yellow card for a rash tackle.
After that, by all accounts, it was only our goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen who kept us in the game.
Two home points lost against the kind of team we should be beating.
It's ok for our manager Paul Trollope to suggest that we will struggle to beat teams like Southampton. After all, it wasn't long ago that they were in the Premiership, and they have had plenty of money thrown at them since they sank to our level.
But Brentford? Come on.
Having once again been trapped behind a desk unable to watch my beloved Gas, I needed to get the full story before throwing my toys out of the pram, trouncing Trolls and barracking the boys.
So where better to find out what really happened than to look on the fans forum of our team's website?
I logged on eagerly, just hoping that I could salvage some glimmer of hope. Drawing your home games against ordinary opposition and losing against the bigger clubs is, after all, a surefire recipe for relegation.
And what did I find? A post labelled "hooters".
I thought, for an instant, that I had been transported into the realms of ice hockey, and that a blaring claxon had been introduced to signal the end of the game. Maybe we had been deprived at the death by a hooter sounding as one of our strikers took aim at goal.
But, no. In my search for the truth, I was able to learn that the half-time entertainment supplied by our kids dance troupe the Blue Flames wasn't up to scratch and that perhaps we could invite the buxom barmaids from new American bar Hooters to turn up and bring cheer to our disgruntled fans.
Don't get me wrong. I am all in favour of the idea.
But these well-endowed ladies are hardly going to stop our alarming slide, provide us with the firepower up front (though some might argue) or shore up our weak backline. I can't see Chesty Cheryl or Big Jugs Jemima providing the incisive pass from midfield or coming off the subs bench to give our attack more impetus.
I know we are called Bristol Rovers, but it doesn't mean we need more Bristols.
Thankfully I did find more pertinent comments from fellow Gasheads which cheered me up a bit.
Apparently we played quite well in the first half, though never possessing the cutting edge required to bulldoze Brentford.
It was the second half that most fans took issue with - and there were only around five and a half thousand at the game. That's a worrying turnout with the season still relatively fresh.
What was even more worrying, though, was the comments of our manager.
Trolls thought we were quite adventurous in the first half. But what happened after the break?
Apparently some of our players looked "a bit tired".
Hang on. We have only played SEVEN GAMES this season.
Some would argue we didn't even turn up for two of them.
Tired?
I think I won't turn up for the afternoon at work next weekend on the basis that I felt "pretty tired" by lunchtime.
Sorry, but it sounds like a load of nonsense.
What sort of condition can these full-time professionals be in if they fancy a nap after just 45 minutes? After all, they hadn't played a game since the previous Saturday.
And how are they going to feel when the games come thick and fast - Saturday, Tuesday, Saturday, Tuesday - as they will later in the season?
I admit I am completely baffled by the goings-on at my favourite club.
Still, if they're that tired perhaps next time the same opposition turn up they can bring some of those polyester sheets leftover from the time Brentford Nylons went bust.
And come to think of it calling Hooters wouldn't be such a bad idea, either.
I am sure they could provide a few comfy pillows on which our puffed out players could rest their aching heads during the interval.
Sunday 5 September 2010
Survivors
THERE are two different types of Gashead.
There is the eternal optimist and the raging pessimist.
My mate Haydn is of the first variety. Every time we go to a game he says: "I've got a good feeling about today."
And at the start of every season he predicts: "I think we're going to do well this season."
I guess I sit strictly in the second category.
I can't help it.
Although after 40 years of supporting Bristol Rovers I prefer to call it realism, rather than pessimism.
But I look at it this way... if I don't get my hopes too high then every time something goes well it comes as a pleasant surprise.
Mind you, I still cancelled my wedding because of our chances of making the play-offs last year, though I had no firm grounds for believing we would. We had just finished the previous season with a run of poor results.
The date was all set when my brother sent me a text, warning: "You do realise that the date you have planned for your wedding co-incides with the League One play-off final, don't you?"
My Mrs wasn't too happy, until I explained: "Imagine us walking down the aisle and all I can think of is what is happening at Wembley. Just think. It would come to the point where we make our vows and I'd somehow get confused and say 'I Rippers, take you Ricky Lambert to be my lawful..."
She had no option. We brought the date forward two weeks.
And cursed any chance of Rovers making the play-offs in May.
The reason I mention my pessimism and how it can sometimes work in my favour is that on Saturday I held out absolutely no hope of us getting anything from our trip to Oldham.
We had just been thumped 4-0 by Southampton while our opponents were sitting pretty in the top reaches of the division after a good start under new manager Paul Dickov. Added to that, our loan goalkeeper Mikkel Anderson was away with the Danish national side, and our best midfielder Wayne Brown was ruled out injured.
But I must say by the end of the day I was feeling pretty chirpy.
For two reasons. Let me backtrack to the start of my Saturday...
I jumped in the air, shouted, and sat back down again.
People in the room must have thought I'd sat on a particularly sharp nail.
I hadn't. It was Oldham 0 Bristol Rovers 1 and our new boy Will Hoskins was on target again.
Then I looked at my watch. 82 minutes.
82 painful minutes to hold on to our slender lead. I knew it was going to be a tough afternoon.
Still, it was one of those days which was promising good possibilities.
You see, we have a game called Saturday Survivor in the office.
It goes like this... you put £10 into the kitty and then have to pick a different team to win every week. You can't have the same team twice.
Anything else but a win and you're out... it's sudden death.
The money rolls over until there is one person left standing, and he takes the pot.
It was the fifth week of competition, and I was down to the last three.
There were 12 original entries, meaning I stood to win £120.
The team I chose was Chesterfield. I figured they were pretty good at home and capable of scoring goals. Their opponents Lincoln don't travel well.
My opponents took the seemingly easier options. One bloke lumped on Southampton, thinking they were hardly likely to slip up at home to Rochdale, particularly after destroying us at the Mem.
The other thought Peterborough were a good bet, away to sorry Tranmere.
It was a nail-biting afternoon.
Saints went behind, Peterborough went behind and Chesterfield went in front... all before half-time.
Oh please, let it be my day.
Well, it was.
The two outsiders held on, and Chesterfield bagged a 2-1 win.
And though Rovers conceded just before half-time they also left me feeling relieved and happy, particularly after Danny Coles was sent off after 86 minutes and the ref then decided to play eight gut-wrenching minutes of injury time.
As I listened to Iain Dowie relaying the final moments from Boundary Park on Sky Sports my heart was in my mouth.
With the last kick of the game, Oldham hit the bar.
But we survived.
Fifth biggest town in Greater Manchester 1, Biggest city in South West of England 1.
And I was a Survivor, too.
I felt like I'd won the lottery - £120 better off and a point for the Gas after all the horrors of the previous week.
Mind you, I can hear those optimists even now. We have Brentford at home, Dagenham and Redbridge away, Notts County at home and Tranmere at home in the next month.
On the Gas fans forum one bloke is already predicting 12 points from those four games - conveniently forgetting one of our only three centre backs is suspended for Brentford, Dagenham and Tranmere have just won tough games at home, and Notts County have recovered from their early season malaise and are starting to look good.
Realism, you see.
But I'll be ecstatic if the optimists among us prove right this time.
There is the eternal optimist and the raging pessimist.
My mate Haydn is of the first variety. Every time we go to a game he says: "I've got a good feeling about today."
And at the start of every season he predicts: "I think we're going to do well this season."
I guess I sit strictly in the second category.
I can't help it.
Although after 40 years of supporting Bristol Rovers I prefer to call it realism, rather than pessimism.
But I look at it this way... if I don't get my hopes too high then every time something goes well it comes as a pleasant surprise.
Mind you, I still cancelled my wedding because of our chances of making the play-offs last year, though I had no firm grounds for believing we would. We had just finished the previous season with a run of poor results.
The date was all set when my brother sent me a text, warning: "You do realise that the date you have planned for your wedding co-incides with the League One play-off final, don't you?"
My Mrs wasn't too happy, until I explained: "Imagine us walking down the aisle and all I can think of is what is happening at Wembley. Just think. It would come to the point where we make our vows and I'd somehow get confused and say 'I Rippers, take you Ricky Lambert to be my lawful..."
She had no option. We brought the date forward two weeks.
And cursed any chance of Rovers making the play-offs in May.
The reason I mention my pessimism and how it can sometimes work in my favour is that on Saturday I held out absolutely no hope of us getting anything from our trip to Oldham.
We had just been thumped 4-0 by Southampton while our opponents were sitting pretty in the top reaches of the division after a good start under new manager Paul Dickov. Added to that, our loan goalkeeper Mikkel Anderson was away with the Danish national side, and our best midfielder Wayne Brown was ruled out injured.
But I must say by the end of the day I was feeling pretty chirpy.
For two reasons. Let me backtrack to the start of my Saturday...
I jumped in the air, shouted, and sat back down again.
People in the room must have thought I'd sat on a particularly sharp nail.
I hadn't. It was Oldham 0 Bristol Rovers 1 and our new boy Will Hoskins was on target again.
Then I looked at my watch. 82 minutes.
82 painful minutes to hold on to our slender lead. I knew it was going to be a tough afternoon.
Still, it was one of those days which was promising good possibilities.
You see, we have a game called Saturday Survivor in the office.
It goes like this... you put £10 into the kitty and then have to pick a different team to win every week. You can't have the same team twice.
Anything else but a win and you're out... it's sudden death.
The money rolls over until there is one person left standing, and he takes the pot.
It was the fifth week of competition, and I was down to the last three.
There were 12 original entries, meaning I stood to win £120.
The team I chose was Chesterfield. I figured they were pretty good at home and capable of scoring goals. Their opponents Lincoln don't travel well.
My opponents took the seemingly easier options. One bloke lumped on Southampton, thinking they were hardly likely to slip up at home to Rochdale, particularly after destroying us at the Mem.
The other thought Peterborough were a good bet, away to sorry Tranmere.
It was a nail-biting afternoon.
Saints went behind, Peterborough went behind and Chesterfield went in front... all before half-time.
Oh please, let it be my day.
Well, it was.
The two outsiders held on, and Chesterfield bagged a 2-1 win.
And though Rovers conceded just before half-time they also left me feeling relieved and happy, particularly after Danny Coles was sent off after 86 minutes and the ref then decided to play eight gut-wrenching minutes of injury time.
As I listened to Iain Dowie relaying the final moments from Boundary Park on Sky Sports my heart was in my mouth.
With the last kick of the game, Oldham hit the bar.
But we survived.
Fifth biggest town in Greater Manchester 1, Biggest city in South West of England 1.
And I was a Survivor, too.
I felt like I'd won the lottery - £120 better off and a point for the Gas after all the horrors of the previous week.
Mind you, I can hear those optimists even now. We have Brentford at home, Dagenham and Redbridge away, Notts County at home and Tranmere at home in the next month.
On the Gas fans forum one bloke is already predicting 12 points from those four games - conveniently forgetting one of our only three centre backs is suspended for Brentford, Dagenham and Tranmere have just won tough games at home, and Notts County have recovered from their early season malaise and are starting to look good.
Realism, you see.
But I'll be ecstatic if the optimists among us prove right this time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)