Tired excuses

LARGE European Metropolis 0, Miniscule Area of London famous only for a defunct factory that produced cheap and uncomfortable bedlinen 0.
Six games into the season and I thought our team might finally be "gelling".
But once again I was left biting my fingernails, just hoping we could get the better of Brentford.
Then, with 20 minutes still to go and the score nil-nil, we had a player sent off.
Our left back, Gary Sawyer, was shown the exit after picking up a second yellow card for a rash tackle.
After that, by all accounts, it was only our goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen who kept us in the game.
Two home points lost against the kind of team we should be beating.
It's ok for our manager Paul Trollope to suggest that we will struggle to beat teams like Southampton. After all, it wasn't long ago that they were in the Premiership, and they have had plenty of money thrown at them since they sank to our level.
But Brentford? Come on.
Having once again been trapped behind a desk unable to watch my beloved Gas, I needed to get the full story before throwing my toys out of the pram, trouncing Trolls and barracking the boys.
So where better to find out what really happened than to look on the fans forum of our team's website?
I logged on eagerly, just hoping that I could salvage some glimmer of hope. Drawing your home games against ordinary opposition and losing against the bigger clubs is, after all, a surefire recipe for relegation.
And what did I find? A post labelled "hooters".
I thought, for an instant, that I had been transported into the realms of ice hockey, and that a blaring claxon had been introduced to signal the end of the game. Maybe we had been deprived at the death by a hooter sounding as one of our strikers took aim at goal.
But, no. In my search for the truth, I was able to learn that the half-time entertainment supplied by our kids dance troupe the Blue Flames wasn't up to scratch and that perhaps we could invite the buxom barmaids from new American bar Hooters to turn up and bring cheer to our disgruntled fans.
Don't get me wrong. I am all in favour of the idea.
But these well-endowed ladies are hardly going to stop our alarming slide, provide us with the firepower up front (though some might argue) or shore up our weak backline. I can't see Chesty Cheryl or Big Jugs Jemima providing the incisive pass from midfield or coming off the subs bench to give our attack more impetus.
I know we are called Bristol Rovers, but it doesn't mean we need more Bristols.
Thankfully I did find more pertinent comments from fellow Gasheads which cheered me up a bit.
Apparently we played quite well in the first half, though never possessing the cutting edge required to bulldoze Brentford.
It was the second half that most fans took issue with - and there were only around five and a half thousand at the game. That's a worrying turnout with the season still relatively fresh.
What was even more worrying, though, was the comments of our manager.
Trolls thought we were quite adventurous in the first half. But what happened after the break?
Apparently some of our players looked "a bit tired".
Hang on. We have only played SEVEN GAMES this season.
Some would argue we didn't even turn up for two of them.
Tired?
I think I won't turn up for the afternoon at work next weekend on the basis that I felt "pretty tired" by lunchtime.
Sorry, but it sounds like a load of nonsense.
What sort of condition can these full-time professionals be in if they fancy a nap after just 45 minutes? After all, they hadn't played a game since the previous Saturday.
And how are they going to feel when the games come thick and fast - Saturday, Tuesday, Saturday, Tuesday - as they will later in the season?
I admit I am completely baffled by the goings-on at my favourite club.
Still, if they're that tired perhaps next time the same opposition turn up they can bring some of those polyester sheets leftover from the time Brentford Nylons went bust.
And come to think of it calling Hooters wouldn't be such a bad idea, either.
I am sure they could provide a few comfy pillows on which our puffed out players could rest their aching heads during the interval.