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...