SOMETIMES you take desperate measures in an effort to ensure your team wins.
Last season I actually bet AGAINST the Gas.
The episode went like this.
The Saints fan who sits next to me thought his team had an outside chance of making the play-offs. We had just about blown our chances.
The two teams were meeting at the Mem the following week and both of us were desperate for victory - for bragging rights more than anything.
He said to me: "Let's have an office bluey on it."
Now an office bluey is a fiver. It is the standard bet when one of our teams takes on a side supported by another person in the office.
I wasn't too keen. I felt I might as well hand him the cash there and then, so bad was our form.
Looking at the unenthusiastic expression on my face he quickly changed tack.
"Actually I've got a better idea. Are you going to the game?"
I admitted that I was.
"Then let's try something different. I'll refund your admission price if Saints win, and you pay me 17 quid if Rovers win. That way neither of us will mind losing the bet, and we'll have some consolation if our team is beaten."
I won the 17 quid and have never felt so miserable. We lost 5-1 after going 1-0 up against the run of play. Rickie Lambert, our former hero, was the main catalyst of our demise.
Southampton that day were everything we weren't. They played with style, pace, attacking intent and had a substitutes' bench that cost more than our entire team.
Things haven't changed much.
And we're facing them again tomorrow afternoon. Yikes.
Once again an office bluey is at stake, and until this afternoon I felt I had no hope of collecting.
Even though they've had a poor start to the season, the odds are stacked against us.
They're going to get it right soon and I fancy their revival will start at the Mem.
For heaven's sake they've even signed a Brazilian midfielder.
Perhaps we should con them into thinking we've done the same, and list our midfield in the match programme as Blizzardinho and Campbelliso.
Still, something amazing happened this afternoon to give me a glimmer of hope.
We've actually signed another striker on loan until January. Big bloke, hopefully capable of terrorising defences.
The good news: He's 6ft 2ins. The bad news: He comes from our arch nemeses from across the city.
Still, if John Akinde can solve the problem we've been facing ever since Lambo left, you won't see too many Gasheads moaning.
It would be great if he could start off with a goal against the Saints and earn me a fiver in the process.
We've had some interesting tussles with Southampton in the past. As I have said previously in this blog, my first Rovers game amounted to a 7-0 friendly defeat by the Saints at Eastville.
But a few years later I recall a famous day when we knocked them out of the FA Cup 2-0.
We had a young striker who had come straight off the checkout at a supermarket in Somerset name of Paul Randall, a real poacher, who grabbed both of the goals that day. He went on to become a Rovers legend, returning for a second spell after a brief time in the top flight with Stoke City.
In 1981 I recall getting a special train from Parkway to Southampton with a big turnout of Gasheads for a cup tie that we lost 3-1.
Until now, though, sharing a division with them was a fantasy.
Last season I had a week off and persuaded the Mrs that it would be a good idea to visit Southampton on a brief road trip around southern England. The day we got there just happened to coincide with Rovers playing at St Mary's.
What a game it was, too. There was a great following of Gasheads behind the goal, and although we took quite a battering we always looked dangerous on the counter attack with loanee Chris Dickson quite sharp up front and new fullback Carl Regan looking a good signing.
Star of the show, though, was goalkeeper Mikkel Anderson, on loan from Reading, who made some outstanding saves when we could have shipped a few.
Then, in injury time, Andy Williams, the Forest Gump-style striker we have now offloaded to Yeovil, scored a spectacular goal to win us the game 3-2.
I thought: "What a result! That could just make our season."
Hmm. It turned out to be a turning point, but for the wrong reasons.
That weekend we shipped five goals at Norwich, the start of a run of seven defeats in a row. Ouch!
Dickson went back to Charlton, his early season promise having evaporated, and Regan's form deserted him.
Still, I won the office bluey on the back of the St Mary's result - a triumph that I didn't have too long to celebrate.
I handed the cash back a few weeks later when they beat us 3-2 in the FA Cup at the Mem.
Friday 27 August 2010
Monday 23 August 2010
Should he stay or should he go?
SMALL town in Devon that masquerades as a City 2, Sixth biggest City in England 2.
And my emotions have been up and down like a bungee jumper on acid all day.
I couldn't go to Exeter but I admit I had nagging fears about what the outcome might be.
In fact, I had voiced them to the Saints fan earlier that day.
Trying to place a bet that would guarantee him retirement in his early to mid 30s, he had asked me simply: "Reckon your boys will win today?"
And though I wanted to scream, "Lord, yes, of course they will" I found myself muttering, "No, not a chance."
Negative? You bet.
But I had my reasons.
You see, for Exeter City it was a bit more than just a football match.
Fans of the Grecians were gathering at their home, the far less well known St James's Park, to salute their sadly departed former striker Adam Stansfield, who had died from cancer at the age of 31.
It was going to be an emotional occasion, with a minute's applause to commemorate his life. And we were going to be bit-part players.
Well, let's face it, the life of a Gashead involves playing the supporting role rather a lot.
For instance, we were the fall guys on the last day of the previous season when over 40,000 fans had turned up at Elland Road to watch Leeds United complete their inevitable march back up to the Championship.
We didn't disappoint.
Despite being 1-0 up and seeing them go down to 10-men we eventually learnt the script and rolled over 2-1, securing us safe passage home and a token mention in the Sunday papers the next day.
On this occasion, Exeter's manager Paul Tisdale had sent out a rallying call to his team. "Do it for Adam". They were going to be completely fired up for this one. No motivation from the boss would be necessary. How could our boys compete?
Nine minutes past 3 and Sky Sports confirmed the inevitable. We had gone 1-0 down.
But, joy of joys, my gloom lifted after 44 minutes. It was 1-1, Jo Kuffour equalising on the stroke of half time. My fellow office workers looked stunned by my sudden shriek.
Better was to follow. Early in the second half an Exeter player was sent off and they were down to 10 men. But I kept my elation in check by reminding myself that Rovers NEVER beat teams who go down to 10 men early in the game.
I had even witnessed a game a few years back when visiting Luton were actually reduced to eight men at the Mem. We drew 1-1.
Hold on, though, our new striker Will Hoskins has scored and made it 2-1.
Nothing can go wrong now.
I can, in fact, see the table at the end of the day. Rovers are pushing up towards the very summit. Six points from three league games so far this season. We are getting it right.
Except I don't really feel it.
Because I just know they will equalise.
Call it pessimism, realism, or just being a Gashead.
And I'm right. There is an equaliser with 15 minutes to go.
I can tell you, those last 15 minutes were hell and in the end I was relieved to see we held on for the draw.
I envisaged their 10-men piling on the pressure and us somehow withstanding it to sneak back to Bristol with a point.
Was it like that? I don't know. I've just seen it all before.
Later that day the message boards are working overtime.
"Trolls must go" says one poster. "Trolls must stay" counters another, then gets angry when people who want the manager to get the sack start posting on HIS thread. "Stick to your own thread, this is for people who want him to stay," he argues.
And this, for a Rovers fan, appears to be the biggest debate of the moment.
Three games into the season, four points out of a possible nine, and there are two distinct camps.
So do I sack the manager.
Or back the manager.
My dad used to wax lyrical about a player he revered.
His hero played 368 consecutive games as fullback for Swindon Town, a run which only ended when he broke his arm against Hereford United.
At the end of his career at the County Ground he had made a total of 770 appearances for the same club.
The man was a legend. A beacon of loyalty.
His name was John Trollope.
I mention him simply because his son Paul is manager of Bristol Rovers. Has been for five years.
And with a father like that he must know something about loyalty.
How to show it, and how to instill it in those who play for him.
At the moment he needs all the loyalty he can muster.
I can see merits in both the pro-Trolls and anti-Trolls arguments.
My heart tells me that with genes like that this man can conquer any challenge thrown at him.
He will persevere, he will learn from his mistakes and, eventually, he will get it right if given time.
Getting it right means producing a team which will claw its way up the table until we genuinely become challengers for a place in the Championship. Hopefully, in doing so, we will play entertaining football. But if we don't always manage that, at least we will look like a team... hard to beat, capable of scoring, never admitting we are fighting a losing cause.
One for all, all for one.
Unfortunately with genes like that it could mean something different. It could mean he is stubborn, unbending, inflexible.
I'm afraid to say that the evidence I have seen with my own eyes (not enough over recent years, granted) and heard second hand from close friends and Gasheads of many years standing has left me struggling to see a team developing.
We are not hard to beat, quite often we don't look capable of scoring from open play and on occasion we let our heads go down too early when we have fallen behind and don't seem to be able to change our game plan to respond to the situation.
It's a sad fact of life that when those weaknesses occur, the blame must be laid at the feet of the man in charge.
For my sins, I know a few things about management.
And before people yell "oh yeah, who did you play for then? show us your medals" it's not football management, I grant you.
But whether you manage a football club, a bank, a kwik-fit centre, a corner shop or a newspaper sports desk, as I did, the same principles apply.
People will say you cannot learn how to manage. They are talking bollocks.
In fact, it is a pretty scientific process.
And it is all designed to get the very best out of the people around you, the people you manage.
If they do the job right, then you get the chance to bathe in the reflected glory.
If they do it wrong, then it is your head on the chopping block.
It is not an exact science, however. You can develop your own style of management, as long as it gets the right results.
The keys for me are recruitment, motivation and loyalty.
You have to pick the right people, the ones you can mould into a team to get the results you want. Then you need to find their motivation and get them to run through brick walls for you.
People say that you should treat them all the same.
Wrong.
No person is the same. One may respond to a kick up the backside, another might respond to an arm around the shoulder. Your job is to understand what makes them tick, and press those buttons.
I think the players Paul Trollope has at his disposal want to do a good job. None of them want to play badly.
At least they SHOULD want to do well. For personal pride, for their families and, surely, for the thousands of supporters who are just waiting for a chance to laud them as heroes.
I'm just not sure he has the right ones.
And, if he has, whether he has done enough to motivate them.
Thirdly, are they loyal to him?
The jury is out but when a team collapses as it did in the first half at Oxford and, despite a talk with the manager at half time, still goes out and shows no sign of second-half improvement I truly wonder.
There are players who have been signed by the manager - Mark Wright, Andy Williams, Daryl Duffy - who have just not fitted in. Were they the wrong recruits? Or has he just failed to find what makes them tick?
Wright, certainly, seems to be doing everything on loan at Shrewsbury that we, the fans, wanted him to do for us. He is sending in crosses, creating goals and taking on defenders.
Mind you, if he had done it at the Mem who would he have aimed his crosses at? None of our strikers are over 5ft 9.
We need goals and Duffy can score them. But he is out of favour.
So was he a bad recruit? Or has he just been treated badly?
It's another question that has raised its head frequently over recent weeks.
Still, I have my own theory on Trolls.
He has just taken all the badges he needs to qualify him as a top coach.
He now knows his 4-4-2 from his 4-5-1 and his 4-3-3.
He can make players run around brightly coloured cones and teach them how to lean on the back of strikers in the penalty area without being seen by the ref.
But on these courses do they teach you how to manage people? Or is he just moving brightly coloured disks around a luminous board, like Andy Gray does on a Sunday night.
When you are a team like Bristol Rovers, not blessed with money, a decent stadium, history in a top-flight division or the best players, you need - above all - a top manager.
Paul Trollope might be a damn fine coach, but he is NOT a manager.
And my emotions have been up and down like a bungee jumper on acid all day.
I couldn't go to Exeter but I admit I had nagging fears about what the outcome might be.
In fact, I had voiced them to the Saints fan earlier that day.
Trying to place a bet that would guarantee him retirement in his early to mid 30s, he had asked me simply: "Reckon your boys will win today?"
And though I wanted to scream, "Lord, yes, of course they will" I found myself muttering, "No, not a chance."
Negative? You bet.
But I had my reasons.
You see, for Exeter City it was a bit more than just a football match.
Fans of the Grecians were gathering at their home, the far less well known St James's Park, to salute their sadly departed former striker Adam Stansfield, who had died from cancer at the age of 31.
It was going to be an emotional occasion, with a minute's applause to commemorate his life. And we were going to be bit-part players.
Well, let's face it, the life of a Gashead involves playing the supporting role rather a lot.
For instance, we were the fall guys on the last day of the previous season when over 40,000 fans had turned up at Elland Road to watch Leeds United complete their inevitable march back up to the Championship.
We didn't disappoint.
Despite being 1-0 up and seeing them go down to 10-men we eventually learnt the script and rolled over 2-1, securing us safe passage home and a token mention in the Sunday papers the next day.
On this occasion, Exeter's manager Paul Tisdale had sent out a rallying call to his team. "Do it for Adam". They were going to be completely fired up for this one. No motivation from the boss would be necessary. How could our boys compete?
Nine minutes past 3 and Sky Sports confirmed the inevitable. We had gone 1-0 down.
But, joy of joys, my gloom lifted after 44 minutes. It was 1-1, Jo Kuffour equalising on the stroke of half time. My fellow office workers looked stunned by my sudden shriek.
Better was to follow. Early in the second half an Exeter player was sent off and they were down to 10 men. But I kept my elation in check by reminding myself that Rovers NEVER beat teams who go down to 10 men early in the game.
I had even witnessed a game a few years back when visiting Luton were actually reduced to eight men at the Mem. We drew 1-1.
Hold on, though, our new striker Will Hoskins has scored and made it 2-1.
Nothing can go wrong now.
I can, in fact, see the table at the end of the day. Rovers are pushing up towards the very summit. Six points from three league games so far this season. We are getting it right.
Except I don't really feel it.
Because I just know they will equalise.
Call it pessimism, realism, or just being a Gashead.
And I'm right. There is an equaliser with 15 minutes to go.
I can tell you, those last 15 minutes were hell and in the end I was relieved to see we held on for the draw.
I envisaged their 10-men piling on the pressure and us somehow withstanding it to sneak back to Bristol with a point.
Was it like that? I don't know. I've just seen it all before.
Later that day the message boards are working overtime.
"Trolls must go" says one poster. "Trolls must stay" counters another, then gets angry when people who want the manager to get the sack start posting on HIS thread. "Stick to your own thread, this is for people who want him to stay," he argues.
And this, for a Rovers fan, appears to be the biggest debate of the moment.
Three games into the season, four points out of a possible nine, and there are two distinct camps.
So do I sack the manager.
Or back the manager.
My dad used to wax lyrical about a player he revered.
His hero played 368 consecutive games as fullback for Swindon Town, a run which only ended when he broke his arm against Hereford United.
At the end of his career at the County Ground he had made a total of 770 appearances for the same club.
The man was a legend. A beacon of loyalty.
His name was John Trollope.
I mention him simply because his son Paul is manager of Bristol Rovers. Has been for five years.
And with a father like that he must know something about loyalty.
How to show it, and how to instill it in those who play for him.
At the moment he needs all the loyalty he can muster.
I can see merits in both the pro-Trolls and anti-Trolls arguments.
My heart tells me that with genes like that this man can conquer any challenge thrown at him.
He will persevere, he will learn from his mistakes and, eventually, he will get it right if given time.
Getting it right means producing a team which will claw its way up the table until we genuinely become challengers for a place in the Championship. Hopefully, in doing so, we will play entertaining football. But if we don't always manage that, at least we will look like a team... hard to beat, capable of scoring, never admitting we are fighting a losing cause.
One for all, all for one.
Unfortunately with genes like that it could mean something different. It could mean he is stubborn, unbending, inflexible.
I'm afraid to say that the evidence I have seen with my own eyes (not enough over recent years, granted) and heard second hand from close friends and Gasheads of many years standing has left me struggling to see a team developing.
We are not hard to beat, quite often we don't look capable of scoring from open play and on occasion we let our heads go down too early when we have fallen behind and don't seem to be able to change our game plan to respond to the situation.
It's a sad fact of life that when those weaknesses occur, the blame must be laid at the feet of the man in charge.
For my sins, I know a few things about management.
And before people yell "oh yeah, who did you play for then? show us your medals" it's not football management, I grant you.
But whether you manage a football club, a bank, a kwik-fit centre, a corner shop or a newspaper sports desk, as I did, the same principles apply.
People will say you cannot learn how to manage. They are talking bollocks.
In fact, it is a pretty scientific process.
And it is all designed to get the very best out of the people around you, the people you manage.
If they do the job right, then you get the chance to bathe in the reflected glory.
If they do it wrong, then it is your head on the chopping block.
It is not an exact science, however. You can develop your own style of management, as long as it gets the right results.
The keys for me are recruitment, motivation and loyalty.
You have to pick the right people, the ones you can mould into a team to get the results you want. Then you need to find their motivation and get them to run through brick walls for you.
People say that you should treat them all the same.
Wrong.
No person is the same. One may respond to a kick up the backside, another might respond to an arm around the shoulder. Your job is to understand what makes them tick, and press those buttons.
I think the players Paul Trollope has at his disposal want to do a good job. None of them want to play badly.
At least they SHOULD want to do well. For personal pride, for their families and, surely, for the thousands of supporters who are just waiting for a chance to laud them as heroes.
I'm just not sure he has the right ones.
And, if he has, whether he has done enough to motivate them.
Thirdly, are they loyal to him?
The jury is out but when a team collapses as it did in the first half at Oxford and, despite a talk with the manager at half time, still goes out and shows no sign of second-half improvement I truly wonder.
There are players who have been signed by the manager - Mark Wright, Andy Williams, Daryl Duffy - who have just not fitted in. Were they the wrong recruits? Or has he just failed to find what makes them tick?
Wright, certainly, seems to be doing everything on loan at Shrewsbury that we, the fans, wanted him to do for us. He is sending in crosses, creating goals and taking on defenders.
Mind you, if he had done it at the Mem who would he have aimed his crosses at? None of our strikers are over 5ft 9.
We need goals and Duffy can score them. But he is out of favour.
So was he a bad recruit? Or has he just been treated badly?
It's another question that has raised its head frequently over recent weeks.
Still, I have my own theory on Trolls.
He has just taken all the badges he needs to qualify him as a top coach.
He now knows his 4-4-2 from his 4-5-1 and his 4-3-3.
He can make players run around brightly coloured cones and teach them how to lean on the back of strikers in the penalty area without being seen by the ref.
But on these courses do they teach you how to manage people? Or is he just moving brightly coloured disks around a luminous board, like Andy Gray does on a Sunday night.
When you are a team like Bristol Rovers, not blessed with money, a decent stadium, history in a top-flight division or the best players, you need - above all - a top manager.
Paul Trollope might be a damn fine coach, but he is NOT a manager.
Wednesday 18 August 2010
Window shopping
EVERY morning I wake up with a feeling of optimism.
I rise from my bed, hurtle downstairs, put on the kettle and log onto the computer.
I'm full of anticipation.
I tell myself this could be the day.
The golden day.
The day the Gas deliver on their promise.
The day that turns us from mid-table nonentities to genuine promotion challengers.
The day, in short, when Bristol Rovers sign the perfect replacement for Rickie Lambert.
Rickie was a deity at the Gas (with apologies to the one true God Gerry Francis). He was a big, battering ram of a forward with a surprisingly skillful touch, who created chances and scored phenomenal goals.
He helped us to promotion from League 2 via the play-offs, grabbed the goal that knocked Southampton, a Championship side at the time, out of the FA Cup and, most memorably, hit the stunning free kick winner against Bristol City in the semi-final of the Johnstone's Paint Trophy a few years back.
Yeah, the JPT. Hardly the biggest prize in football. But to score the goal that knocks out your neighbours and silences fans who sit a division above us but feel they have some God-given right to Premier League status, earns you legendary Gashead status.
Rickie was a legend.
So we sold him.
What's worse is we sold him to Southampton. And the bloke I sit next to at work is a big Saints fan.
So every week I hear how Rickie is banging in goals for them. "What a great signing," says my mate. "Didn't he used to play for you?" pah.
To be honest, we sell anyone who is any good. That is our role in football life. We are a "selling" club.
But normally when we sell someone we have a player in the background we have already identified as a replacement.
For instance, when we sold Jason Roberts there was a young lad called Nathan Ellington coming through the ranks. By the time he moved on Junior Agogo had been signed from non-league.
And when Agogo got shipped off for a decent fee to Nottingham Forest, we went to Rochdale to bag Rickie.
We were always thinking one step ahead.
Until now, it seems.
Lambert went when it was too late to bring in a replacement, so we held out hope that we would find someone by the January transfer window.
That came and went.
Yes, we loaned out one of the only other strikers at the club on the last day of the window to free some of the wage bill, but then failed to capture any of our targets. As flawed a piece of business as ever there was.
Never mind, we Gasheads were told, one would come along in the summer. And we are still waiting - 12 days and counting until the transfer window shuts.
It wouldn't bother me so much if it wasn't for the articles which the Bristol Rovers website countenance as news.
While we see a mass of transfer activity every day on Sky Sports News - yesterday's big announcement was that our old rivals Cardiff City from across the bridge had signed the Welsh International Craig Bellamy on loan from Manchester City - this is what we find out from our beloved club...
A Rod Stewart tribute band is appearing at the Memorial Ground.
Well, strike me down with a ginger wig and Tam o'shanter, isn't that just the news we all want to hear? Um, no.
Or take today, as the transfer saga bubbles on, the breaking news is how to obtain corporate hospitality for our home game against Southampton. Excuse me, news? No, that's just marketing.
Anyway, I don't like to think about hospitality against Southampton.
Our defence was so hospitable towards Rickie and his mates on their last visit to the Mem that they handed out goals like Hors D'ouvres. It finished 5-1.
Still, if it happens again, at least we have the consolation that replica Rod can sing us a song to cheer us up.
I rise from my bed, hurtle downstairs, put on the kettle and log onto the computer.
I'm full of anticipation.
I tell myself this could be the day.
The golden day.
The day the Gas deliver on their promise.
The day that turns us from mid-table nonentities to genuine promotion challengers.
The day, in short, when Bristol Rovers sign the perfect replacement for Rickie Lambert.
Rickie was a deity at the Gas (with apologies to the one true God Gerry Francis). He was a big, battering ram of a forward with a surprisingly skillful touch, who created chances and scored phenomenal goals.
He helped us to promotion from League 2 via the play-offs, grabbed the goal that knocked Southampton, a Championship side at the time, out of the FA Cup and, most memorably, hit the stunning free kick winner against Bristol City in the semi-final of the Johnstone's Paint Trophy a few years back.
Yeah, the JPT. Hardly the biggest prize in football. But to score the goal that knocks out your neighbours and silences fans who sit a division above us but feel they have some God-given right to Premier League status, earns you legendary Gashead status.
Rickie was a legend.
So we sold him.
What's worse is we sold him to Southampton. And the bloke I sit next to at work is a big Saints fan.
So every week I hear how Rickie is banging in goals for them. "What a great signing," says my mate. "Didn't he used to play for you?" pah.
To be honest, we sell anyone who is any good. That is our role in football life. We are a "selling" club.
But normally when we sell someone we have a player in the background we have already identified as a replacement.
For instance, when we sold Jason Roberts there was a young lad called Nathan Ellington coming through the ranks. By the time he moved on Junior Agogo had been signed from non-league.
And when Agogo got shipped off for a decent fee to Nottingham Forest, we went to Rochdale to bag Rickie.
We were always thinking one step ahead.
Until now, it seems.
Lambert went when it was too late to bring in a replacement, so we held out hope that we would find someone by the January transfer window.
That came and went.
Yes, we loaned out one of the only other strikers at the club on the last day of the window to free some of the wage bill, but then failed to capture any of our targets. As flawed a piece of business as ever there was.
Never mind, we Gasheads were told, one would come along in the summer. And we are still waiting - 12 days and counting until the transfer window shuts.
It wouldn't bother me so much if it wasn't for the articles which the Bristol Rovers website countenance as news.
While we see a mass of transfer activity every day on Sky Sports News - yesterday's big announcement was that our old rivals Cardiff City from across the bridge had signed the Welsh International Craig Bellamy on loan from Manchester City - this is what we find out from our beloved club...
A Rod Stewart tribute band is appearing at the Memorial Ground.
Well, strike me down with a ginger wig and Tam o'shanter, isn't that just the news we all want to hear? Um, no.
Or take today, as the transfer saga bubbles on, the breaking news is how to obtain corporate hospitality for our home game against Southampton. Excuse me, news? No, that's just marketing.
Anyway, I don't like to think about hospitality against Southampton.
Our defence was so hospitable towards Rickie and his mates on their last visit to the Mem that they handed out goals like Hors D'ouvres. It finished 5-1.
Still, if it happens again, at least we have the consolation that replica Rod can sing us a song to cheer us up.
Sunday 15 August 2010
Feeling Karma
WHEN I pressed the rewind button for the 10th time I think the TV actually groaned.
But I couldn't help it. Bristol Rovers were up and running after beating Yeovil Town 2-1 at home.
After such a traumatic week for all Gasheads, which started with the 3-0 pounding by the Posh and got infinitely worse with that 6-1 drubbing by League Two Oxford in the Carling Cup, I must admit I wasn't sure what to expect.
My heart told me that these blips were due to our new players getting to know each other and that once everything clicked into place we would respond with a dazzling performance against, let's face it, a glorified pub side from a small town in deepest, darkest Somerset.
My head kept whispering: "Hold on. What if our confidence is shot? You haven't SEEN these new players, you are only taking the word of a manager who has a vested interest in telling us how good they are. The others you have seen, and how often have they dazzled over the last couple of years? We could be bottom of the league by the end of the day."
What a relief, then, that we managed to nab the three points.
Not dazzling, but it will do.
When I arrived home from work in the early hours of the morning there was only one thing on my mind.
Forget the cup of tea, a much-needed snack, the invitation of a warm bed, even a cuddle for the baby. It was on with the tv, straight to the BBC I-player and a re-run of the Football League Show.
This programme of highlights from the afternoon games is almost certainly too long.
Its format is patronising and twee, and its presenters utterly nauseating.
There is front man Manish, who is too cool for school, Lizzie Pippy-Longstocking (at least, it's SOMETHING like that), who pretends to be the fans friend but would look more at home on the polo fields of Windsor than your average football league terrace, and Steve Claridge, who acts as if he knows everything there is to know about every team in the league while appearing to read hastily prepared scribbles from the back of a beer mat.
Still, it is a must for anyone who supports a team outside the Premier League - particularly on a day when your team has won.
And once I had seen our glorious triumph, courtesy of goals from Jo Kuffour and Byron Anthony, I couldn't help but watch the 20 seconds of highlights again and again and again.
Each time the goals got better, the moves slicker, the celebration greater.
Well, I might as well make the most of it - it could be some time before it happens again. A tough game against improving Exeter City is next up, followed by a home match against those South Coast millionaires Southampton, and our former hero Rickie Lambert.
I'm afraid at this point I have to admit to my fellow sufferers that I almost cost Rovers their vital first three points of the season.
I made a schoolboy error, a childish faux pas, one which you would think I had learnt to avoid after 40 years experience supporting the Gas.
It's Saturday afternoon in the newsroom of the busy national newspaper where I work. The air is full of childish banter.
There is the boss, a West Ham fan, who deserves to suffer more jibes than most but gets away with it because he is the boss and can kick a wastepaper basket further than Jonny Wilkinson can kick a rugby ball.
There is the Chelsea clique, all feeling very chuffed with themselves after last season's title triumph, and the Spurs contingent, all confidently predicting that it could be THEIR year (they have been doing this for as long as I have been supporting the Gas, I'm told).
Then there is the betting syndicate, the boys who will challenge each other over which of two raindrops will reach the bottom of the window first.
These boys, as I recorded earlier in this blog, have all had a serious bet on Bristol City to win the Championship. They say it is an educated gamble and has nothing whatever to do with winding up a colleague... me.
Of course, I went in all guns blazing this week after the news filtered through that Steve Coppell had quit Ashton Gate after two games in charge. "Hard luck, lads, hope you're laying off those bets," I chuckled.
Anyway, 20 to 5 on Saturday afternoon.
City 1-0 up. Rovers 1-0 up.
Jeff Stelling imparts some breaking news.
"And Doncaster have just equalised against Bristol City."
I can't help it. The opening is there.
I point at one of the betting boys, who just happens to be the person who sent me the "Rovers... Rovers" text on the final whistle after our Oxford defeat, and laugh very loudly.
"Bad luck, mate," I shout cheerily.
Everyone hoots.
Then I turn back to the screen to see the tickertape announcing: "Bristol Rovers 1 Yeovil Town 1." Aaaargh!
"Oh dear, Rippers, that's karma," says a mate. "You should never wallow in other people's misfortune."
And don't I know it. My elation has turned to desperation, and I am anticipating that dreadful end-of-the-day League One table with the mighty Bristol Rovers floundering just above struggling Notts County and below the likes of rickety old Rochdale and nearly-bankrupt Bournemouth.
Why oh why did I commit such a cardinal sin?
I admit it. I've given up. The full-time scores are flashing through now and I've consigned myself to a draw at home to a team who shouldn't be fit to lace our boots.
And then the miracle happens.
"Bristol Rovers 2 Yeovil Town 1".
In fact, it's more than a miracle, there must have been some divine intervention.
Because the goalscorer is Byron Anthony.
Centre back-cum-fullback. And most unlikely of all Gasheads to pop up and grab the winner by my reckoning.
Seconds later the full-time score is confirmed and I look at my watch.
Only eight hours to go before I can watch this wonderous moment with my own eyes and confirm that - yes indeed - we've won a game of football.
But I couldn't help it. Bristol Rovers were up and running after beating Yeovil Town 2-1 at home.
After such a traumatic week for all Gasheads, which started with the 3-0 pounding by the Posh and got infinitely worse with that 6-1 drubbing by League Two Oxford in the Carling Cup, I must admit I wasn't sure what to expect.
My heart told me that these blips were due to our new players getting to know each other and that once everything clicked into place we would respond with a dazzling performance against, let's face it, a glorified pub side from a small town in deepest, darkest Somerset.
My head kept whispering: "Hold on. What if our confidence is shot? You haven't SEEN these new players, you are only taking the word of a manager who has a vested interest in telling us how good they are. The others you have seen, and how often have they dazzled over the last couple of years? We could be bottom of the league by the end of the day."
What a relief, then, that we managed to nab the three points.
Not dazzling, but it will do.
When I arrived home from work in the early hours of the morning there was only one thing on my mind.
Forget the cup of tea, a much-needed snack, the invitation of a warm bed, even a cuddle for the baby. It was on with the tv, straight to the BBC I-player and a re-run of the Football League Show.
This programme of highlights from the afternoon games is almost certainly too long.
Its format is patronising and twee, and its presenters utterly nauseating.
There is front man Manish, who is too cool for school, Lizzie Pippy-Longstocking (at least, it's SOMETHING like that), who pretends to be the fans friend but would look more at home on the polo fields of Windsor than your average football league terrace, and Steve Claridge, who acts as if he knows everything there is to know about every team in the league while appearing to read hastily prepared scribbles from the back of a beer mat.
Still, it is a must for anyone who supports a team outside the Premier League - particularly on a day when your team has won.
And once I had seen our glorious triumph, courtesy of goals from Jo Kuffour and Byron Anthony, I couldn't help but watch the 20 seconds of highlights again and again and again.
Each time the goals got better, the moves slicker, the celebration greater.
Well, I might as well make the most of it - it could be some time before it happens again. A tough game against improving Exeter City is next up, followed by a home match against those South Coast millionaires Southampton, and our former hero Rickie Lambert.
I'm afraid at this point I have to admit to my fellow sufferers that I almost cost Rovers their vital first three points of the season.
I made a schoolboy error, a childish faux pas, one which you would think I had learnt to avoid after 40 years experience supporting the Gas.
It's Saturday afternoon in the newsroom of the busy national newspaper where I work. The air is full of childish banter.
There is the boss, a West Ham fan, who deserves to suffer more jibes than most but gets away with it because he is the boss and can kick a wastepaper basket further than Jonny Wilkinson can kick a rugby ball.
There is the Chelsea clique, all feeling very chuffed with themselves after last season's title triumph, and the Spurs contingent, all confidently predicting that it could be THEIR year (they have been doing this for as long as I have been supporting the Gas, I'm told).
Then there is the betting syndicate, the boys who will challenge each other over which of two raindrops will reach the bottom of the window first.
These boys, as I recorded earlier in this blog, have all had a serious bet on Bristol City to win the Championship. They say it is an educated gamble and has nothing whatever to do with winding up a colleague... me.
Of course, I went in all guns blazing this week after the news filtered through that Steve Coppell had quit Ashton Gate after two games in charge. "Hard luck, lads, hope you're laying off those bets," I chuckled.
Anyway, 20 to 5 on Saturday afternoon.
City 1-0 up. Rovers 1-0 up.
Jeff Stelling imparts some breaking news.
"And Doncaster have just equalised against Bristol City."
I can't help it. The opening is there.
I point at one of the betting boys, who just happens to be the person who sent me the "Rovers... Rovers" text on the final whistle after our Oxford defeat, and laugh very loudly.
"Bad luck, mate," I shout cheerily.
Everyone hoots.
Then I turn back to the screen to see the tickertape announcing: "Bristol Rovers 1 Yeovil Town 1." Aaaargh!
"Oh dear, Rippers, that's karma," says a mate. "You should never wallow in other people's misfortune."
And don't I know it. My elation has turned to desperation, and I am anticipating that dreadful end-of-the-day League One table with the mighty Bristol Rovers floundering just above struggling Notts County and below the likes of rickety old Rochdale and nearly-bankrupt Bournemouth.
Why oh why did I commit such a cardinal sin?
I admit it. I've given up. The full-time scores are flashing through now and I've consigned myself to a draw at home to a team who shouldn't be fit to lace our boots.
And then the miracle happens.
"Bristol Rovers 2 Yeovil Town 1".
In fact, it's more than a miracle, there must have been some divine intervention.
Because the goalscorer is Byron Anthony.
Centre back-cum-fullback. And most unlikely of all Gasheads to pop up and grab the winner by my reckoning.
Seconds later the full-time score is confirmed and I look at my watch.
Only eight hours to go before I can watch this wonderous moment with my own eyes and confirm that - yes indeed - we've won a game of football.
Friday 13 August 2010
Rising from the Ashes
WE Gasheads have had to clutch at a lot of straws over the years.
And after the capitulation at Posh and the abomination at Oxford, it is time to grab any piece of flotsam that passes our way as that sinking feeling takes hold.
Well, here's my offering.
Just under four years ago I joined the Barmy Army for the entire Ashes cricket tour.
Right, you're thinking, the one that England lost 5-0. A humiliating whitewash.
But before you start shouting Jonah at the top of your voices, there is method behind the madness, I can assure you.
When I jetted off to Brisbane my beloved Rovers were in a hideous state. We were fading fast towards the Football League basement after a string of embarrassing results.
The odd cry of "Trollope out" had been heard on the sparce terraces and it seemed it was going to be another year of despair.
But as I travelled around down under, going from one England debacle to another, a strange thing happened. The Gas began improving.
As I monitored everything thanks to the good old BBC Sport website, we started to draw games we would have lost, and win games we would have drawn.
In fact, I well remember arriving in Melbourne for the Boxing Day Test with the Ashes already lost, and logging on to discover that we had actually beaten Accrington Stanley 4-0 at home.
4-0.
Against Accrington Stanley.
Yikes.
During the Ashes jaunt it was brilliant, too, to find that when I wore my Gas shirt to the Tests it was like a moth to a flame. Gasheads would turn up from other parts of the ground and impromptu conventions would break out.
And as another wicket fell there actually seemed to be a bit of optimism in our ranks. The talk was not of another Flintoff failure or Harmison howler, it was of Richie Walker and Rickie Lambert, of Craig Disley and Steve Elliot, and we even whispered about play-off chances.
We were still only about 16th, mind you, but the feeling was growing.
Quite a few of these Gasheads had emigrated to the Land Down Under, which is quite a desperate remedy for seasons of mind-numbing pain at the hands of our favourite football team. But once a Gashead, always a Gashead, and the feeling of hope is something we carry with us wherever we go.
Anyway, the reason for this rambling tale, the whole raison d'etre of regaling stories of a distant past, is that when I got back to Blighty I was able to follow the Rovers in their unstoppable march to the play-off final at Wembley, and proudly cheer them to a 3-1 victory over Shrewsbury.
Fantastic.
And that dear reader is the reason for my blind optimism, my hand outstretched to hold on to a piece of flimsy, dry grass.
Once again our brave boys will be going down under to try to win on Aussie soil.
Sadly I won't be able to join them this time. That's because on returning to these shores I met my future wife and just over seven weeks ago she gave birth to our little daughter.
I don't think she would take too kindly for me travelling back to Oz for two months.
But surely it is significant.
It's an Ashes year.
Rovers have started abysmally.
The only way is up.
All the signs are there for a magnificent recovery and brilliant season.
Well, apart from Walker, Lambert, Disley and Elliott...
And after the capitulation at Posh and the abomination at Oxford, it is time to grab any piece of flotsam that passes our way as that sinking feeling takes hold.
Well, here's my offering.
Just under four years ago I joined the Barmy Army for the entire Ashes cricket tour.
Right, you're thinking, the one that England lost 5-0. A humiliating whitewash.
But before you start shouting Jonah at the top of your voices, there is method behind the madness, I can assure you.
When I jetted off to Brisbane my beloved Rovers were in a hideous state. We were fading fast towards the Football League basement after a string of embarrassing results.
The odd cry of "Trollope out" had been heard on the sparce terraces and it seemed it was going to be another year of despair.
But as I travelled around down under, going from one England debacle to another, a strange thing happened. The Gas began improving.
As I monitored everything thanks to the good old BBC Sport website, we started to draw games we would have lost, and win games we would have drawn.
In fact, I well remember arriving in Melbourne for the Boxing Day Test with the Ashes already lost, and logging on to discover that we had actually beaten Accrington Stanley 4-0 at home.
4-0.
Against Accrington Stanley.
Yikes.
During the Ashes jaunt it was brilliant, too, to find that when I wore my Gas shirt to the Tests it was like a moth to a flame. Gasheads would turn up from other parts of the ground and impromptu conventions would break out.
And as another wicket fell there actually seemed to be a bit of optimism in our ranks. The talk was not of another Flintoff failure or Harmison howler, it was of Richie Walker and Rickie Lambert, of Craig Disley and Steve Elliot, and we even whispered about play-off chances.
We were still only about 16th, mind you, but the feeling was growing.
Quite a few of these Gasheads had emigrated to the Land Down Under, which is quite a desperate remedy for seasons of mind-numbing pain at the hands of our favourite football team. But once a Gashead, always a Gashead, and the feeling of hope is something we carry with us wherever we go.
Anyway, the reason for this rambling tale, the whole raison d'etre of regaling stories of a distant past, is that when I got back to Blighty I was able to follow the Rovers in their unstoppable march to the play-off final at Wembley, and proudly cheer them to a 3-1 victory over Shrewsbury.
Fantastic.
And that dear reader is the reason for my blind optimism, my hand outstretched to hold on to a piece of flimsy, dry grass.
Once again our brave boys will be going down under to try to win on Aussie soil.
Sadly I won't be able to join them this time. That's because on returning to these shores I met my future wife and just over seven weeks ago she gave birth to our little daughter.
I don't think she would take too kindly for me travelling back to Oz for two months.
But surely it is significant.
It's an Ashes year.
Rovers have started abysmally.
The only way is up.
All the signs are there for a magnificent recovery and brilliant season.
Well, apart from Walker, Lambert, Disley and Elliott...
Tuesday 10 August 2010
Oxford Blues
THE man chuckled.
Well, he actually sniggered.
And it was as if he had stuck a dagger in my heart.
But let me retrace my steps.
It is Tuesday evening and the Gas are away at Oxford United in the Carling Cup.
This is Oxford United, newly promoted back into the Football League after years of exile in the Conference.
The club has been rebuilt. New stadium, new manager, new hope.
But they are only on the first rung back, while last season Bristol Rovers finished 11th in League One, football's third tier. Then, as mentioned earlier, we went out in the summer and acquired some new faces which our manager Paul Trollope described as "Championship" standard and said could only improve his squad.
Losing 3-0 to Peterborough on Saturday was probably on the cards as they had just been relegated and managed to hold onto their best players, while we were building a new team.
Oxford, though. Different story. We should have too much league experience and, dare I say it, class for them.
It is the Cup, though, and it throws up plenty of surprises. We should know. We have created quite a number ourselves in the past. In fact, I recall us once winning at Old Trafford in this same competition, under one of its many previous guises, more than three decades ago.
There was a time I would have gone to Oxford.
I recall it was my first-ever away trip with Rovers back in the 70s.
At the time they played at the Manor Ground and my abiding memory was getting off the train with hundreds of other fans and opting to walk rather than take a bus. About an hour later, having done a hillclimb of which Sir Edmund Hillary would have been proud, we arrived at this ramshackle slum of sardine can proportions wondering if our legs could hold us for another 90 minutes or so.
I remember standing, huddled, on their tiny away end - packed to the rafters - and cheering on my team as they went down 2-1. From that moment I was hooked on away travel, the cameraderie, banter and feeling that you're some kind of elite unit sent out to spread the name of your team across the country.
Mind you, even now to bellow "Rovers" at the top of my voice at their plush new stadium was tempting.
But I would have needed a damn good excuse and, quite honestly, I couldn't think of one.
You see, my daughter is just seven weeks old and tonight was bath night. Couldn't miss that for some strange crusade with a mediocre football team, could I? Well, not without creating a frosty atmosphere between myself and my lovely wife that might stretch through to the weekend.
I took the sensible option of staying home and saving up the brownie points for our assault on Wembley at the end of the season, or even an away date with a big club later in this same competition.
Anyway, bathtime over, the wife and I decided to watch one of our dvd's from Series 4 of the Wire. Great show, and I needed to take my mind off the goings-on in Oxfordshire. A strange part of me felt that, though I hoped we would win, there was a good chance that we would be on the end of an upset.
Half way through the programme and the Mrs fancies an ice cream. Having just bought a new freezer we haven't stocked it yet, so she volunteers to nip around the corner to the garage.
I pause the DVD. I know what I am going to do next.
I want to resist, but I have to check the latest score on Sky Soccer Special.
And just as I turn over the guy chuckles. No mistake, it's a quite distinct, corner of the mouth, expression of amusement.
And why is he amused? It's because: "It is now Oxford United FIVE, Bristol Rovers 1".
From that moment I can't concentrate on the Wire.
What has gone wrong?
When I said I had a nagging feeling the game might produce a shock I was thinking along the lines of 1-0. And I was thinking that score because, quite honestly, I just can't envisage our front men finding the net.
But 5-1 to Oxford? Home to posh students and Inspector Morse? I'm sure even his powers of detection couldn't work out how the hell we managed that.
Worst still, there are only 52 minutes gone.
And by the end of the night it is even worse. It is 6-1. We are out.
We are out of the Carling Cup, a competition Paul Trollope says he is taking "very seriously".
Seriously?
Then why has he managed to turn us into a one-night joke? A team to chuckle over on national TV? Why? Why? Why?
The Mrs has gone to bed. She can see by the look on my face that there won't be any lucid responses to any of her attempts at conversation.
My phone beeps. A text message.
I see the sender is a bloke I work with: A Chelsea fanatic.
It just says, "Rovers... Rovers".
Har de har har.
It won't be the last.
Because tonight, fellow Gasheads, we have been embarrassed.
Totally and utterly.
And while those players who supposedly represent us face up to a couple of hard days on the training pitch, it is nothing compared to the stressful week ahead we face from mates, work colleagues and the like who follow a different club to ours or, even worse, don't like football at all but have still heard about this monumental defeat.
And while manager Trollope gives us more platitudes in choreographed press conferences for the website which end up in the Evening Post word for word, we have to try to make sense of the whole mess.
I dare one of those players who wore the quarters tonight to say they can understand how the fans are feeling.
They can't.
They have no idea.
For while they have proved to be gutless, we are simply gutted.
Well, he actually sniggered.
And it was as if he had stuck a dagger in my heart.
But let me retrace my steps.
It is Tuesday evening and the Gas are away at Oxford United in the Carling Cup.
This is Oxford United, newly promoted back into the Football League after years of exile in the Conference.
The club has been rebuilt. New stadium, new manager, new hope.
But they are only on the first rung back, while last season Bristol Rovers finished 11th in League One, football's third tier. Then, as mentioned earlier, we went out in the summer and acquired some new faces which our manager Paul Trollope described as "Championship" standard and said could only improve his squad.
Losing 3-0 to Peterborough on Saturday was probably on the cards as they had just been relegated and managed to hold onto their best players, while we were building a new team.
Oxford, though. Different story. We should have too much league experience and, dare I say it, class for them.
It is the Cup, though, and it throws up plenty of surprises. We should know. We have created quite a number ourselves in the past. In fact, I recall us once winning at Old Trafford in this same competition, under one of its many previous guises, more than three decades ago.
There was a time I would have gone to Oxford.
I recall it was my first-ever away trip with Rovers back in the 70s.
At the time they played at the Manor Ground and my abiding memory was getting off the train with hundreds of other fans and opting to walk rather than take a bus. About an hour later, having done a hillclimb of which Sir Edmund Hillary would have been proud, we arrived at this ramshackle slum of sardine can proportions wondering if our legs could hold us for another 90 minutes or so.
I remember standing, huddled, on their tiny away end - packed to the rafters - and cheering on my team as they went down 2-1. From that moment I was hooked on away travel, the cameraderie, banter and feeling that you're some kind of elite unit sent out to spread the name of your team across the country.
Mind you, even now to bellow "Rovers" at the top of my voice at their plush new stadium was tempting.
But I would have needed a damn good excuse and, quite honestly, I couldn't think of one.
You see, my daughter is just seven weeks old and tonight was bath night. Couldn't miss that for some strange crusade with a mediocre football team, could I? Well, not without creating a frosty atmosphere between myself and my lovely wife that might stretch through to the weekend.
I took the sensible option of staying home and saving up the brownie points for our assault on Wembley at the end of the season, or even an away date with a big club later in this same competition.
Anyway, bathtime over, the wife and I decided to watch one of our dvd's from Series 4 of the Wire. Great show, and I needed to take my mind off the goings-on in Oxfordshire. A strange part of me felt that, though I hoped we would win, there was a good chance that we would be on the end of an upset.
Half way through the programme and the Mrs fancies an ice cream. Having just bought a new freezer we haven't stocked it yet, so she volunteers to nip around the corner to the garage.
I pause the DVD. I know what I am going to do next.
I want to resist, but I have to check the latest score on Sky Soccer Special.
And just as I turn over the guy chuckles. No mistake, it's a quite distinct, corner of the mouth, expression of amusement.
And why is he amused? It's because: "It is now Oxford United FIVE, Bristol Rovers 1".
From that moment I can't concentrate on the Wire.
What has gone wrong?
When I said I had a nagging feeling the game might produce a shock I was thinking along the lines of 1-0. And I was thinking that score because, quite honestly, I just can't envisage our front men finding the net.
But 5-1 to Oxford? Home to posh students and Inspector Morse? I'm sure even his powers of detection couldn't work out how the hell we managed that.
Worst still, there are only 52 minutes gone.
And by the end of the night it is even worse. It is 6-1. We are out.
We are out of the Carling Cup, a competition Paul Trollope says he is taking "very seriously".
Seriously?
Then why has he managed to turn us into a one-night joke? A team to chuckle over on national TV? Why? Why? Why?
The Mrs has gone to bed. She can see by the look on my face that there won't be any lucid responses to any of her attempts at conversation.
My phone beeps. A text message.
I see the sender is a bloke I work with: A Chelsea fanatic.
It just says, "Rovers... Rovers".
Har de har har.
It won't be the last.
Because tonight, fellow Gasheads, we have been embarrassed.
Totally and utterly.
And while those players who supposedly represent us face up to a couple of hard days on the training pitch, it is nothing compared to the stressful week ahead we face from mates, work colleagues and the like who follow a different club to ours or, even worse, don't like football at all but have still heard about this monumental defeat.
And while manager Trollope gives us more platitudes in choreographed press conferences for the website which end up in the Evening Post word for word, we have to try to make sense of the whole mess.
I dare one of those players who wore the quarters tonight to say they can understand how the fans are feeling.
They can't.
They have no idea.
For while they have proved to be gutless, we are simply gutted.
Sunday 8 August 2010
Twitter ye not
IT all started to go horribly wrong when the I-phone battery died.
Not my I-phone mind. The one belonging to a Gashead who had promised regular updates from the game to the legion of fans who couldn't go to Peterborough. He was going to post regularly on that miracle of modern technology known as Twitter.
The fact that I am even writing those words sends a shiver down my spine.
I have regularly been quoted by a mate as once declaring: "The Internet is a passing fad."
Now I communicate through e-mail, facebook and, yes, Twitter. And I have two blogs.
In fact, I am so busy on the internet social networking, sending cryptic messages to my "friends" and revealing my innermost thoughts across the worldwide web, I have barely any time to speak to real people. And, when I do, I've got little new to say.
It is things like twitter that will eventually sound the death knell of newspapers.
So I guess I am hastening my own demise.
Still, 3pm in the office of the national newspaper where I work and the excitement has reached a crescendo.
At least, my excitement has.
My fellow hacks won't acknowledge the football season has even started until those overpaid prima donnas of the Premier League have laced up their boots and taken to the field. I'm surrounded by Gooners, Yids, Hammers, Chelsea pensioners and the odd Manc.
I've got one eye on Stelling on the big screen to my left, and the twitter feed up on the computer. Now and then I have to hide it so that I look like I am actually doing some work.
But it's hard to concentrate when you know the Gas have kicked off.
And all is going well. Our able correspondent has warned that his battery might be a bit low but his updates are coming through loud and clear.
After five minutes the key points are:
Our fans are louder than theirs.
Our striker Jo Kuffour is making their defenders look like mugs.
Our new defender James Tunnicliffe, on loan from Brighton, is a giant crushing every Posh player in sight.
It won't be long before we go ahead and cruise to opening day victory.
Nothing can go wrong now...
Thirty eight minutes. No goals, but Rovers have gone close.
Then comes the bad news. The battery is on life support, the phone is going off and the running commentary is over for the day.
Bugger.
So it's over to Stelling and Sky Sports. And at least the City are 2-0 down, David James or not. It might not be such a bad day after all.
5pm. I am distraught. 3 poxy 0. Little town in Cambridgeshire 3, Big City in the West country 0. Former Bristol City manager 3 current Bristol Rovers boss 0.
There are no words to describe this feeling. It will take away all my enthusiasm for the rest of the weekend.
The only thing to do is find out what went wrong.
So first the match report on the official Bristol Rovers website.
Of course, I don't expect to read any semblance of truth on here - it's like Russians must have felt when they read Pravda during the golden age of Communism.
Perhaps the goalscorers are right. But there's no guarantee of that.
Other than that it's going to be another sob story. Played really well. Got beaten by three breakaway goals.
Then it's on to the fans forum. At least they tell it like it is.
According to those in the know we need a new striker to replace Ricky Lambert (posted by Sherlock Holmes, no doubt), we need to spend a lot of money, bring in new players and sack the manager.
Yeah, it is all becoming crystal clear. My only question is: Why didn't we do that during the weeks and weeks we had to sort it out during the summer?
And our boss Paul Trollope doesn't make it easier to stomach. He comes out with the normal story of how we had done well, closed them down and restricted their chances. Then - surprise, surprise - they came out after the break and stepped up a gear. We couldn't match them.
They scored. We chased the game. They scored again... and again.
I know the story of the game, thanks Paul, I've read the match report.
What I need to know is what you're going to do about it.
Three-Nil. A hammering. On the opening day of the season.
And you've brought in new players, a new backroom staff, a new plan A, plan B and plan C.
What on earth went wrong?
Did you leave the plans at home? Did your Misses put them in the recycle bin by mistake? Did Peterborough spies infiltrate your training HQ on Friday night and steal them from the safe?
Or is the plain truth that we are just not very good?
It's the early hours of Monday morning now. And it has just dawned on me.
It is only one game.
We have 45 more to go, plus various cup ties and the like.
Last year Norwich lost their first game 7-1 then romped away with the title.
Tuesday is another match. It's the Carling Cup. Away to Oxford.
They have only just got back into the League.
We should walk it.
Shouldn't we?
Not my I-phone mind. The one belonging to a Gashead who had promised regular updates from the game to the legion of fans who couldn't go to Peterborough. He was going to post regularly on that miracle of modern technology known as Twitter.
The fact that I am even writing those words sends a shiver down my spine.
I have regularly been quoted by a mate as once declaring: "The Internet is a passing fad."
Now I communicate through e-mail, facebook and, yes, Twitter. And I have two blogs.
In fact, I am so busy on the internet social networking, sending cryptic messages to my "friends" and revealing my innermost thoughts across the worldwide web, I have barely any time to speak to real people. And, when I do, I've got little new to say.
It is things like twitter that will eventually sound the death knell of newspapers.
So I guess I am hastening my own demise.
Still, 3pm in the office of the national newspaper where I work and the excitement has reached a crescendo.
At least, my excitement has.
My fellow hacks won't acknowledge the football season has even started until those overpaid prima donnas of the Premier League have laced up their boots and taken to the field. I'm surrounded by Gooners, Yids, Hammers, Chelsea pensioners and the odd Manc.
I've got one eye on Stelling on the big screen to my left, and the twitter feed up on the computer. Now and then I have to hide it so that I look like I am actually doing some work.
But it's hard to concentrate when you know the Gas have kicked off.
And all is going well. Our able correspondent has warned that his battery might be a bit low but his updates are coming through loud and clear.
After five minutes the key points are:
Our fans are louder than theirs.
Our striker Jo Kuffour is making their defenders look like mugs.
Our new defender James Tunnicliffe, on loan from Brighton, is a giant crushing every Posh player in sight.
It won't be long before we go ahead and cruise to opening day victory.
Nothing can go wrong now...
Thirty eight minutes. No goals, but Rovers have gone close.
Then comes the bad news. The battery is on life support, the phone is going off and the running commentary is over for the day.
Bugger.
So it's over to Stelling and Sky Sports. And at least the City are 2-0 down, David James or not. It might not be such a bad day after all.
5pm. I am distraught. 3 poxy 0. Little town in Cambridgeshire 3, Big City in the West country 0. Former Bristol City manager 3 current Bristol Rovers boss 0.
There are no words to describe this feeling. It will take away all my enthusiasm for the rest of the weekend.
The only thing to do is find out what went wrong.
So first the match report on the official Bristol Rovers website.
Of course, I don't expect to read any semblance of truth on here - it's like Russians must have felt when they read Pravda during the golden age of Communism.
Perhaps the goalscorers are right. But there's no guarantee of that.
Other than that it's going to be another sob story. Played really well. Got beaten by three breakaway goals.
Then it's on to the fans forum. At least they tell it like it is.
According to those in the know we need a new striker to replace Ricky Lambert (posted by Sherlock Holmes, no doubt), we need to spend a lot of money, bring in new players and sack the manager.
Yeah, it is all becoming crystal clear. My only question is: Why didn't we do that during the weeks and weeks we had to sort it out during the summer?
And our boss Paul Trollope doesn't make it easier to stomach. He comes out with the normal story of how we had done well, closed them down and restricted their chances. Then - surprise, surprise - they came out after the break and stepped up a gear. We couldn't match them.
They scored. We chased the game. They scored again... and again.
I know the story of the game, thanks Paul, I've read the match report.
What I need to know is what you're going to do about it.
Three-Nil. A hammering. On the opening day of the season.
And you've brought in new players, a new backroom staff, a new plan A, plan B and plan C.
What on earth went wrong?
Did you leave the plans at home? Did your Misses put them in the recycle bin by mistake? Did Peterborough spies infiltrate your training HQ on Friday night and steal them from the safe?
Or is the plain truth that we are just not very good?
It's the early hours of Monday morning now. And it has just dawned on me.
It is only one game.
We have 45 more to go, plus various cup ties and the like.
Last year Norwich lost their first game 7-1 then romped away with the title.
Tuesday is another match. It's the Carling Cup. Away to Oxford.
They have only just got back into the League.
We should walk it.
Shouldn't we?
Thursday 5 August 2010
Come on, Jeff Stelling!
I CAN'T sleep. Can't think straight. I've developed a worrying twitch above my left eye.
I find I am getting snappy for no logical reason.
At work, my fingers work relentlessly on twitter, google, the Gas website.
I need a sign.
People around me can sense my edginess. They are playing on it.
The Saints fan who sits alongside me starts the ball rolling.
"I've got on Bristol City for promotion at 13-2," he says.
"Who're you with? I fancy them, too," says the bloke across the table.
"Yeah, we're all on them," adds another betting junkie from the far side of the room.
They must feel like Torres does when presented with an open goal.
A Cardiff City mate sends me a tweet in sympathy.
"They've got no chance mate. Coppell is a gd manager but they are a poor team (James and Maynard apart) we smashed em 6-0 at Ashton!"
I point this out to the baiting hordes.
"Has the transfer window shut yet?" asks one.
"Well ... no, not yet."
"So in theory David James joining Bristol (he says that deliberately) could encourage other big names to join them. It is what they call a seminal signing."
I can't disagree.
But this isn't about City and Steve Coppell, David James or whoever they may sign.
This is about the Gas.
It is about Paul Trollope. The boss.
The man we trust above all others.
He tells us he has got it right. He has brought in signings that are Championship quality.
They will make the team better than last season.
He will employ different tactics, too. He has a plan A, a plan B, a plan C.
And reading this I think: Where can it go wrong?
I so want to believe him, but there are minor little fears niggling at the back of my mind.
There's no Steve Elliott, our stalwart of seasons past, the steady hand in the centre of defence.
And we have still found no replacement for Rickie Lambert, the prolific striker we sold to Southampton at the start of last season and who came back to haunt us - no more so than in our 5-1 thrashing at the Mem towards the end of the campaign just gone.
Plus the goalkeeper we signed on loan for this season lasted barely a week before injuring his back, but at least we now have Mikkel Andersen, the giant Dane who did so well for us previously, back from Reading on a month's loan.
But still... the new players all say we are aiming for promotion, confident we have the right players on board. So who am I to argue?
Well, last week I spent a lot of my time compiling the ins and outs for various rivals.
And, lo and behold, they have all made signings, too. And they are all confident they have got the right players in.
For goodness sake, local rivals Swindon have just signed two players from Celtic, the Scottish giants. Well, actually, Celtic have been pretty hopeless lately and these two lads couldn't even get into their team.
So I'm not worried about Swindon.
Still, there is Sheffield Wednesday, Southampton, Charlton, Huddersfield, Brighton, MK Dons, Peterborough, Plymouth and Notts County to worry about before you even look into the merits of improving Exeter plus Oldham and their new boss.
And if I am truly honest I have heard very little of the players that we have signed other than from Trolls, who says he has fought off stiff competition for all of them.
I am... err... convinced.
So roll on Saturday.
I'd love to be at Peterborough to see this new team click into action, take the League by storm, thrash the lives out of opposition just relegated from the Championship and now managed by the former City boss Gary Johnson.
Unfortunately I'll be at work.
The tension will build until 3pm when I will be transfixed by every squeak, sigh, laugh and groan eminating from frontman Jeff Stelling and his team on Sky Sports.
I'll be supremely confident that this will be the Gas's season.
And I will erase from my memory the opening day of last season, a 2-1 home defeat to Leyton Orient... or 2008/09, a 3-2 home defeat by Carlisle United, or even the 2006-07 season... a 4-1 away defeat at, wait for it, Peterborough.
And even if the result goes the wrong way I will still find a silver lining. In fact, I already have it prepared.
When the betting boys turn around to crow because Bristol City have got off to a flyer and Rovers have crashed I'll just say, "I think it's a good omen. We lost at London Road 4-1 on the first day four seasons ago and went on to win the League Two play-off final at Wembley."
I find I am getting snappy for no logical reason.
At work, my fingers work relentlessly on twitter, google, the Gas website.
I need a sign.
People around me can sense my edginess. They are playing on it.
The Saints fan who sits alongside me starts the ball rolling.
"I've got on Bristol City for promotion at 13-2," he says.
"Who're you with? I fancy them, too," says the bloke across the table.
"Yeah, we're all on them," adds another betting junkie from the far side of the room.
They must feel like Torres does when presented with an open goal.
A Cardiff City mate sends me a tweet in sympathy.
"They've got no chance mate. Coppell is a gd manager but they are a poor team (James and Maynard apart) we smashed em 6-0 at Ashton!"
I point this out to the baiting hordes.
"Has the transfer window shut yet?" asks one.
"Well ... no, not yet."
"So in theory David James joining Bristol (he says that deliberately) could encourage other big names to join them. It is what they call a seminal signing."
I can't disagree.
But this isn't about City and Steve Coppell, David James or whoever they may sign.
This is about the Gas.
It is about Paul Trollope. The boss.
The man we trust above all others.
He tells us he has got it right. He has brought in signings that are Championship quality.
They will make the team better than last season.
He will employ different tactics, too. He has a plan A, a plan B, a plan C.
And reading this I think: Where can it go wrong?
I so want to believe him, but there are minor little fears niggling at the back of my mind.
There's no Steve Elliott, our stalwart of seasons past, the steady hand in the centre of defence.
And we have still found no replacement for Rickie Lambert, the prolific striker we sold to Southampton at the start of last season and who came back to haunt us - no more so than in our 5-1 thrashing at the Mem towards the end of the campaign just gone.
Plus the goalkeeper we signed on loan for this season lasted barely a week before injuring his back, but at least we now have Mikkel Andersen, the giant Dane who did so well for us previously, back from Reading on a month's loan.
But still... the new players all say we are aiming for promotion, confident we have the right players on board. So who am I to argue?
Well, last week I spent a lot of my time compiling the ins and outs for various rivals.
And, lo and behold, they have all made signings, too. And they are all confident they have got the right players in.
For goodness sake, local rivals Swindon have just signed two players from Celtic, the Scottish giants. Well, actually, Celtic have been pretty hopeless lately and these two lads couldn't even get into their team.
So I'm not worried about Swindon.
Still, there is Sheffield Wednesday, Southampton, Charlton, Huddersfield, Brighton, MK Dons, Peterborough, Plymouth and Notts County to worry about before you even look into the merits of improving Exeter plus Oldham and their new boss.
And if I am truly honest I have heard very little of the players that we have signed other than from Trolls, who says he has fought off stiff competition for all of them.
I am... err... convinced.
So roll on Saturday.
I'd love to be at Peterborough to see this new team click into action, take the League by storm, thrash the lives out of opposition just relegated from the Championship and now managed by the former City boss Gary Johnson.
Unfortunately I'll be at work.
The tension will build until 3pm when I will be transfixed by every squeak, sigh, laugh and groan eminating from frontman Jeff Stelling and his team on Sky Sports.
I'll be supremely confident that this will be the Gas's season.
And I will erase from my memory the opening day of last season, a 2-1 home defeat to Leyton Orient... or 2008/09, a 3-2 home defeat by Carlisle United, or even the 2006-07 season... a 4-1 away defeat at, wait for it, Peterborough.
And even if the result goes the wrong way I will still find a silver lining. In fact, I already have it prepared.
When the betting boys turn around to crow because Bristol City have got off to a flyer and Rovers have crashed I'll just say, "I think it's a good omen. We lost at London Road 4-1 on the first day four seasons ago and went on to win the League Two play-off final at Wembley."
Monday 2 August 2010
Banned from Trashton - at the age of eight!
Ah yes, David James.
Bristol City have signed arguably England's No 1 goalkeeper.
We've signed Paul Daniels. On loan.
Well, ok, it's not Paul it's Luke.
But the speed at which he disappeared makes me think he must have some sort of magical powers. I'm sure even the lovely Debbie McGee must be baffled.
Luke came from West Brom a couple of weeks ago. He flew straight into Scotland to join Rovers on their tour north of the border. Think he played about 45 minutes.
Now he's gone.
A back injury apparently.
Well, they say the goalkeeper is part of the spine of the team, so you don't really want him slipping a disc.
Which means there are five days to go to the start of the new season and we have no first-choice goalkeeper.
Those fans of the "other" Bristol team must be laughing into their cider.
And that's not the only thing that has got me worked up this week.
Allegedly, some City fans have also taken a spray can to the Memorial ground. They have defaced the South Stand, the pasty hut and even a war memorial outside the ground.
The more cynical of us might claim some of their work can be labelled "ground improvements".
Anyway, they have spread the words "ADA Bristol City" everywhere.
They obviously can't spell.
I think they mean ADD. My recollection of City's ground, Ashton Gate, is that most of their fans suffer from Attention Deficit Disorder. They walk out 2o minutes from the end if they're losing.
Still, I reckon Rovers could turn it to their advantage.
The Bristol Evening Post, our local rag, has been quick to point out in the past that Banksy is a City fan.
Banksy, for the few who don't know, is the world-renowned graffiti artist whose exhibitions attract huge audiences.
Recently there was a large piece of graffiti daubed on the side of a pub in South Bristol, somehow suggesting the club had some divine right to success. The Post said it was the work of Banksy, and he didn't contradict the claim.
Equally, he hasn't distanced himself from this latest aerosol at work.
So here's a cunning plan. Why not claim Banksy was responsible, invite people to see his scribblings and charge double at the turnstiles.
They'll be queuing around the block. And perhaps we could even BUY a keeper with the proceeds.
Some of you may think I sound bitter. That the words Bristol City bring about a strange, over-the-top, hysterical reaction for someone who is generally thought of as intelligent and thoughtful. I have my reasons. I can't remember the incident myself but my dad, who is in his mid-80s, has told me the story enough times that it has become folklore in our house...
Bristol 1968. I am 8.
We have just moved to the big city from the humble little town of Dorchester.
My sports-mad father is looking for excuses to get out of the house on a Saturday. I am as good an excuse as any.
He decides to take me to a game of professional football. He tells me there are two teams in Bristol, Rovers and City. On that Saturday it just so happens City are at home to Blackpool.
So, on this fateful day I am taken to the stadium we Gasheads now derisively call Trashton.
We take our places on the open end and before long the action is underway.
Now, people who know me will vouch for the fact I am not a shrinking violet. I don't tend to hide my light under a bushel. In fact, I don't even know what a bushel is.
It seems logical to my eight-year-old brain that if you live in Bristol and you are watching a team from Bristol then you should show your support for them. By shouting very loudly. All the way through the game. Even if it's a rubbish one and the team you are supporting are, let's face it, boring.
So I shouted. For City. Very loudly.
Until one of the frosty looking adults standing next to my father turned around and said: "I say mate. Can't you shut your kid up. This is supposed to be the quiet end."
We didn't stay. We got home to find out City had lost 4-2. And I cheered.
And whenever they lose these days, 42 years later, I still cheer.
A few weeks later dad took me to see Rovers at Eastville. It had a few immediate advantages. It was closer to our home, there was plenty of room on the terrace so that I could see all the action, and those within hearing distance actively "encouraged" me to shout. And they laughed and joked and made me feel wanted.
If memory serves me, we were playing Southampton in a friendly. We lost 7-0 and I think Ron Davies scored four of them. I can't be sure.
But I shrugged off the disappointment. And I have been shrugging off disappointment ever since.
I had found my "home".
Bristol City have signed arguably England's No 1 goalkeeper.
We've signed Paul Daniels. On loan.
Well, ok, it's not Paul it's Luke.
But the speed at which he disappeared makes me think he must have some sort of magical powers. I'm sure even the lovely Debbie McGee must be baffled.
Luke came from West Brom a couple of weeks ago. He flew straight into Scotland to join Rovers on their tour north of the border. Think he played about 45 minutes.
Now he's gone.
A back injury apparently.
Well, they say the goalkeeper is part of the spine of the team, so you don't really want him slipping a disc.
Which means there are five days to go to the start of the new season and we have no first-choice goalkeeper.
Those fans of the "other" Bristol team must be laughing into their cider.
And that's not the only thing that has got me worked up this week.
Allegedly, some City fans have also taken a spray can to the Memorial ground. They have defaced the South Stand, the pasty hut and even a war memorial outside the ground.
The more cynical of us might claim some of their work can be labelled "ground improvements".
Anyway, they have spread the words "ADA Bristol City" everywhere.
They obviously can't spell.
I think they mean ADD. My recollection of City's ground, Ashton Gate, is that most of their fans suffer from Attention Deficit Disorder. They walk out 2o minutes from the end if they're losing.
Still, I reckon Rovers could turn it to their advantage.
The Bristol Evening Post, our local rag, has been quick to point out in the past that Banksy is a City fan.
Banksy, for the few who don't know, is the world-renowned graffiti artist whose exhibitions attract huge audiences.
Recently there was a large piece of graffiti daubed on the side of a pub in South Bristol, somehow suggesting the club had some divine right to success. The Post said it was the work of Banksy, and he didn't contradict the claim.
Equally, he hasn't distanced himself from this latest aerosol at work.
So here's a cunning plan. Why not claim Banksy was responsible, invite people to see his scribblings and charge double at the turnstiles.
They'll be queuing around the block. And perhaps we could even BUY a keeper with the proceeds.
Some of you may think I sound bitter. That the words Bristol City bring about a strange, over-the-top, hysterical reaction for someone who is generally thought of as intelligent and thoughtful. I have my reasons. I can't remember the incident myself but my dad, who is in his mid-80s, has told me the story enough times that it has become folklore in our house...
Bristol 1968. I am 8.
We have just moved to the big city from the humble little town of Dorchester.
My sports-mad father is looking for excuses to get out of the house on a Saturday. I am as good an excuse as any.
He decides to take me to a game of professional football. He tells me there are two teams in Bristol, Rovers and City. On that Saturday it just so happens City are at home to Blackpool.
So, on this fateful day I am taken to the stadium we Gasheads now derisively call Trashton.
We take our places on the open end and before long the action is underway.
Now, people who know me will vouch for the fact I am not a shrinking violet. I don't tend to hide my light under a bushel. In fact, I don't even know what a bushel is.
It seems logical to my eight-year-old brain that if you live in Bristol and you are watching a team from Bristol then you should show your support for them. By shouting very loudly. All the way through the game. Even if it's a rubbish one and the team you are supporting are, let's face it, boring.
So I shouted. For City. Very loudly.
Until one of the frosty looking adults standing next to my father turned around and said: "I say mate. Can't you shut your kid up. This is supposed to be the quiet end."
We didn't stay. We got home to find out City had lost 4-2. And I cheered.
And whenever they lose these days, 42 years later, I still cheer.
A few weeks later dad took me to see Rovers at Eastville. It had a few immediate advantages. It was closer to our home, there was plenty of room on the terrace so that I could see all the action, and those within hearing distance actively "encouraged" me to shout. And they laughed and joked and made me feel wanted.
If memory serves me, we were playing Southampton in a friendly. We lost 7-0 and I think Ron Davies scored four of them. I can't be sure.
But I shrugged off the disappointment. And I have been shrugging off disappointment ever since.
I had found my "home".
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)