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".
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