WHEN your team is playing Hartlepool and Jeff Stelling is smiling you know you're in trouble.
Stelling - for those who have been living in outer Mongolia or have no interest in football and have clicked on this blog thinking it was going to give you a recipe for tonight's tea - is the presenter of Sky's Saturday afternoon football show.
He's a mad Hartlepool fan - a breed about as rare as a Dutch hill farmer.
And he takes great delight in everyone knowing it if his side happen to be in the ascendancy.
Well, at around 4.35pm the Jeffmeister was positively beaming.
And I knew it wasn't good news.
Sure enough, the scoreline flashed up on screen. Ten minutes to go and it was Hartlepool 2, Bristol Rovers 0.
By all accounts we hadn't had a shot on target.
The only saving grace was that James Brown wasn't playing and hadn't scored the second goal.
You see, when Brown is playing Stelling always has a bobblehead figure of the soul singer James Brown on his desk. And if he scores this musical doll starts bouncing around to the tune "I feel good".
You know the one. "I feeeel goood. Knew that I would now..."
And Stelling will join in the merry dance.
Anyway, back to Saturday afternoon.
Stelling is beaming, and dancing to a fashion - though without the aid of his sex machine toy.
And I am feeling as low as can be.
Hartlepool. Away.
A God forsaken place.
I went there in a past life, when I used to be the Wrexham reporter for the Evening Leader.
It was so cold I had to wear two pairs of long johns and a pair of mittens.
The game took place in late December. The wind was howling off the north sea, there was snow, and I argue to this day that the ink froze in my pen.
I could only sympathise with the 170 Gasheads who had made the journey out of pure love, or complete brain freeze, to see us getting a whipping.
Apparently, according to the BBC website, we hadn't even managed a shot on target.
But wait...
Jo Kuffour pulls a goal back with five minutes to go.
The Jeffmeister takes it on the chin. Oh well, 2-1. Purely a minor inconvenience, he is musing in his head.
Time ticks by and Stelling continues to update us of the scores around the football grounds of the country.
Then suddenly his face changes.
There is a cringe, like he's sucking on a marmite-flavoured gobstopper.
And there is laughter in the background.
It's coming from all his ex-footballer buddies - Phil Thompson and Paul Merson are two of his tormentors in chief.
And suddenly I know. The miracle has happened.
We've managed to grab a last-minute equaliser.
It's come from our centre back Byron "Lord" Anthony, who is making a bit of a habit of grabbing late goals.
Unfortunately, last week's was into his own net, but no matter.
He's made up for it this time and the Gas have pulled off another away-day miracle, following on from the Huddersfield win.
Shortly afterwards comes the final score.
Coldest place in the world which once elected a Monkey as mayor 2,
Shining lights of the warm south 2.
And though it is not the result we would have wanted - a win to carry us into the highest reaches of League One - it has spared me from walking around with a miserable face for the next few days, questioning whether the Gas are really capable of mounting a promotion challenge this season.
And in my head I can hear the Jeffmeister's song, but it is me that's singing it this time.
"I feeeel gooood..."
Wednesday 27 October 2010
Friday 22 October 2010
Wayne storm
THE gossip wires have been buzzing this week.
It's all been Wayne this, Wayne that.
Is it true he has asked for a transfer?
Why is he still on the subs bench when lesser players are in the first team?
Has it all been down to a huge fall-out with the manager?
Well, it has kept me hooked, particularly as it involves a player who has hardly kicked a ball in anger at the highest level.
Oh.
You thought I was talking about Mr Rooney?
His announcement he is leaving Manchester United, only to do a quick pirouette (expect to see him on Strictly Come Dancing soon) and sign a new 5-year contract with the club has been the talk on everyone's lips.
Well, everyone but we Gasheads, that is.
Because when you support your OWN club, not some media-saturated, multi-national conglomerate in danger of losing its soul to money-grabbing shareholders, you are every bit as passionate about what goes on within.
And the story that's got US gripped involves Wayne Brown.
Heard of him?
He's a 21-year-old midfielder weighing in at 5ft and a fag end.
As far as I know he doesn't spend money on £1,000-a-night hookers, or have a wife that appears on the front of OK and Hello every week of the year.
He's just a common-or-garden, middle-of-the-road, League One footballer.
We signed him in the summer from Fulham where I believe he made the odd appearance in the fizzy lager cup - one of them against us which, incidentally, we won - but not much else.
Still, he was on the books of a Premier League club. And, by all accounts, they wanted him to stay.
But he jumped ship and came to the Gas, obviously attracted by the magnificent aura of the Mem, the exciting football on offer and, yes, a guaranteed first-team place.
Except, of course, it wasn't guaranteed.
He had a couple of games and ever since then has been getting splinters in his backside.
Meanwhile local boy Chris Lines - a Gashead through and through - has been keeping him out of the side, and getting slated for what fans argue have been some pretty poor performances this season.
Brown must play, Lines must not is the mantra.
It's obvious Brown should play because he can pass, shoot, run and score.
He would be the ideal foil for our super striker, Good Will Hoskins.
In fact, by my estimate, it is only our manager Paul Trollope who remains completely oblivious to this fact.
Still, Lines had a stay of execution by Gashead firing squad last week.
He actually scored.
For the first time this season he found his shooting boots and brilliantly hooked the ball home for the vital second goal against Rochdale.
So keeping his place, no doubt, for another week.
This week's trip to Hartlepool, where three points would leave us sitting very nicely, thank you, in the top echelons of League One.
The rumbles remain, though. Is it true that while Lines has been holding down a place, Brown has been marching into the manager's office demanding a transfer?
Did Trolls come face to face with him in a slagging match, and did he throw his shirt on the floor?
Well, I'm not averse to a bit of creative tension in the ranks, to be honest.
And I salute a player who is that keen to play that he can't contain his frustration.
But I'm sure he will get his chance.
Meanwhile Lines - who notched more than a dozen goals for the Gas from midfield last season - may well have received a massive boost to his confidence with last week's strike.
And I imagine he will be very keen to repay the loyalty the manager has shown to him.
Hopefully, he will do that with another goal at Hartlepool.
While the team is winning, it's hard to criticise the manager's selections.
It's when things go wrong that the clamour will start to get our Wayne in the team.
Puts poor Sir Alex Ferguson's problems in perspective a bit, doesn't it?
It's all been Wayne this, Wayne that.
Is it true he has asked for a transfer?
Why is he still on the subs bench when lesser players are in the first team?
Has it all been down to a huge fall-out with the manager?
Well, it has kept me hooked, particularly as it involves a player who has hardly kicked a ball in anger at the highest level.
Oh.
You thought I was talking about Mr Rooney?
His announcement he is leaving Manchester United, only to do a quick pirouette (expect to see him on Strictly Come Dancing soon) and sign a new 5-year contract with the club has been the talk on everyone's lips.
Well, everyone but we Gasheads, that is.
Because when you support your OWN club, not some media-saturated, multi-national conglomerate in danger of losing its soul to money-grabbing shareholders, you are every bit as passionate about what goes on within.
And the story that's got US gripped involves Wayne Brown.
Heard of him?
He's a 21-year-old midfielder weighing in at 5ft and a fag end.
As far as I know he doesn't spend money on £1,000-a-night hookers, or have a wife that appears on the front of OK and Hello every week of the year.
He's just a common-or-garden, middle-of-the-road, League One footballer.
We signed him in the summer from Fulham where I believe he made the odd appearance in the fizzy lager cup - one of them against us which, incidentally, we won - but not much else.
Still, he was on the books of a Premier League club. And, by all accounts, they wanted him to stay.
But he jumped ship and came to the Gas, obviously attracted by the magnificent aura of the Mem, the exciting football on offer and, yes, a guaranteed first-team place.
Except, of course, it wasn't guaranteed.
He had a couple of games and ever since then has been getting splinters in his backside.
Meanwhile local boy Chris Lines - a Gashead through and through - has been keeping him out of the side, and getting slated for what fans argue have been some pretty poor performances this season.
Brown must play, Lines must not is the mantra.
It's obvious Brown should play because he can pass, shoot, run and score.
He would be the ideal foil for our super striker, Good Will Hoskins.
In fact, by my estimate, it is only our manager Paul Trollope who remains completely oblivious to this fact.
Still, Lines had a stay of execution by Gashead firing squad last week.
He actually scored.
For the first time this season he found his shooting boots and brilliantly hooked the ball home for the vital second goal against Rochdale.
So keeping his place, no doubt, for another week.
This week's trip to Hartlepool, where three points would leave us sitting very nicely, thank you, in the top echelons of League One.
The rumbles remain, though. Is it true that while Lines has been holding down a place, Brown has been marching into the manager's office demanding a transfer?
Did Trolls come face to face with him in a slagging match, and did he throw his shirt on the floor?
Well, I'm not averse to a bit of creative tension in the ranks, to be honest.
And I salute a player who is that keen to play that he can't contain his frustration.
But I'm sure he will get his chance.
Meanwhile Lines - who notched more than a dozen goals for the Gas from midfield last season - may well have received a massive boost to his confidence with last week's strike.
And I imagine he will be very keen to repay the loyalty the manager has shown to him.
Hopefully, he will do that with another goal at Hartlepool.
While the team is winning, it's hard to criticise the manager's selections.
It's when things go wrong that the clamour will start to get our Wayne in the team.
Puts poor Sir Alex Ferguson's problems in perspective a bit, doesn't it?
Monday 18 October 2010
Singing the Blues
WHAT a great time to be a Gashead.
Not only are we enjoying the lofty position of ninth in league one, but our noisy neighbours Bristol City have been extremely quiet of late.
All that early season of optimism, the appointment of Steve Coppell, the signing of England goalkeeper David James... it's all gone horrible wrong.
Early on Saturday my work mate told me with - I must admit a bit of mischievous glee in his voice - that City were 2-0 up. At high-flying Cardiff.
This was the same workmate who had taken great pleasure in informing me at the start of the season that he had wedged a great deal of his hard-earned on the Trashton Gate mob to win promotion. Where could it all go wrong?
Well, for starters Coppell quit after two weeks, honestly admitting he had fallen out of love with the game. Being manager of the Sh**heads, as we affectionately know them, can do that to you, I'm sure.
And then they appointed their long-suffering assistant manager Keith Millen to the hot seat on a three-year contract.
Cue more big-money signings, more optimism and . . . a wave of bad results that even the most fatalistic of our Bristol brethren couldn't have imagined.
Anyway, to this Saturday. City bottom of the league but 2-0 up.
Not for long. By the early part of the second half it is 2-2 and by the full-time whistle Cardiff have managed to grab a winner.
Leaving City stranded at the foot of the table.
Oh my word. It's not even 2 o'clock yet.
And as the afternoon goes on things get better.
Right on the stroke of half time a shout goes up across the office, some enthusiastic cockney who is feeding off my new-found enthusiasm and attempting a rather poor imitation of a Brizzle accent.
"Roooovvveeers!"
I look up at the screen and we're 1-0 up. A Jeff Hughes penalty breaking the stubborn resistance of the mighty Rochdale. Oh, things can only get better.
And they do.
With minutes left I am looking at the BBC website table, which shows you the positions if the scores remain the same by the end of the game.
I've both fingers crossed and anticipating the fact that we could be in the top half of the table, just a couple of points away from an automatic promotion place.
Then it's 2-0 and the much-maligned Chris Lines has put us in comfortable command of the game.
Well. Almost.
Because it is absolutely NEVER like that as a Gashead. However much you feel things are going right, there is always going to be a nervous few moments at the end of a Saturday evening.
Sure enough. Four minutes to go and our reliable centre back Byron Anthony has put through his own net.
Hence a white knuckle ride to the end of the game and I'm not able to relax before the final score comes through.
And Rovers always seem to be one of the LAST results to come up.
Finally. Finally.
Big City in the West Country 2, Pokey little place ooop north whose ground sits next to the wonderfully named Cemetery Hotel 1.
"Never felt more like singing the Blues, when Rovers win and the City lose"
As a Gashead you KNOW it can't last.
At some stage, you realise, City will start winning games.
And at some stage, you fear, Rovers will start slipping backwards.
That's why you make the most of every minute, every hour, every day that goes by - walking around with a smile on your face and a song in your heart.
For once, for once, Rovers have the bragging rights in the eternal battle for one-upmanship over our sworn nemesis.
Not only are we enjoying the lofty position of ninth in league one, but our noisy neighbours Bristol City have been extremely quiet of late.
All that early season of optimism, the appointment of Steve Coppell, the signing of England goalkeeper David James... it's all gone horrible wrong.
Early on Saturday my work mate told me with - I must admit a bit of mischievous glee in his voice - that City were 2-0 up. At high-flying Cardiff.
This was the same workmate who had taken great pleasure in informing me at the start of the season that he had wedged a great deal of his hard-earned on the Trashton Gate mob to win promotion. Where could it all go wrong?
Well, for starters Coppell quit after two weeks, honestly admitting he had fallen out of love with the game. Being manager of the Sh**heads, as we affectionately know them, can do that to you, I'm sure.
And then they appointed their long-suffering assistant manager Keith Millen to the hot seat on a three-year contract.
Cue more big-money signings, more optimism and . . . a wave of bad results that even the most fatalistic of our Bristol brethren couldn't have imagined.
Anyway, to this Saturday. City bottom of the league but 2-0 up.
Not for long. By the early part of the second half it is 2-2 and by the full-time whistle Cardiff have managed to grab a winner.
Leaving City stranded at the foot of the table.
Oh my word. It's not even 2 o'clock yet.
And as the afternoon goes on things get better.
Right on the stroke of half time a shout goes up across the office, some enthusiastic cockney who is feeding off my new-found enthusiasm and attempting a rather poor imitation of a Brizzle accent.
"Roooovvveeers!"
I look up at the screen and we're 1-0 up. A Jeff Hughes penalty breaking the stubborn resistance of the mighty Rochdale. Oh, things can only get better.
And they do.
With minutes left I am looking at the BBC website table, which shows you the positions if the scores remain the same by the end of the game.
I've both fingers crossed and anticipating the fact that we could be in the top half of the table, just a couple of points away from an automatic promotion place.
Then it's 2-0 and the much-maligned Chris Lines has put us in comfortable command of the game.
Well. Almost.
Because it is absolutely NEVER like that as a Gashead. However much you feel things are going right, there is always going to be a nervous few moments at the end of a Saturday evening.
Sure enough. Four minutes to go and our reliable centre back Byron Anthony has put through his own net.
Hence a white knuckle ride to the end of the game and I'm not able to relax before the final score comes through.
And Rovers always seem to be one of the LAST results to come up.
Finally. Finally.
Big City in the West Country 2, Pokey little place ooop north whose ground sits next to the wonderfully named Cemetery Hotel 1.
"Never felt more like singing the Blues, when Rovers win and the City lose"
As a Gashead you KNOW it can't last.
At some stage, you realise, City will start winning games.
And at some stage, you fear, Rovers will start slipping backwards.
That's why you make the most of every minute, every hour, every day that goes by - walking around with a smile on your face and a song in your heart.
For once, for once, Rovers have the bragging rights in the eternal battle for one-upmanship over our sworn nemesis.
Wednesday 13 October 2010
Come on Down!
Slum clearance area of London with silliest roundabout in the World..... 2
Pride of the west country...... 1
There comes a time when every supporter of the struggling, lowly, unrecognised, after-thoughts in the world of professional football get their moment in the spotlight.
Their 90 minutes of fame.
It's a time when all the millionaire poseurs who ply their trade in the Premiership get a week's holiday which is termed the international break.
It's a time when they don't do much, just jog about a football pitch and play in third gear before settling for a 0-0 draw (in England's case) with the mighty nation that is Montenegro.
Meanwhile, with nothing else to fill the airways, the tv bigwigs scout around for a game which will perhaps raise a modicum of interest with the general football-loving populous.
On Monday it was our turn - We're on the telly for the local derby at Swindon.
Just like a game show it's: Bristol Rovers, come on down!
Yes, it's our turn to be scrutinised and patronised - not, of course, by the 'top' boys like Andy Gray or Jamie Redknapp. Not even by the second team, in fact. But by 'expert' TV pundits like Don Goodman, that rather inconsequential footballer who has had more clubs than Jack Nicklaus.
And it's a chance for a presenter, not a no 1 name like Richard Keys or Jeff Stelling but on this occasion David Jones (I think), to swat up for eight days so that he can use the term Gasheads as if he knows who we are and follows our every result with keen interest.
No matter. I've had the whole weekend to look forward to it.
And a whole weekend to worry that we might be shown up in front of the watching nation, giving my "friends" around the country the chance to send me mickey-taking sneers on twitter, facebook, email and text message.
Phew, as it is, we escape that.
Ok, we go down 2-1 but I think we give a good account of ourselves in what is an entertaining end-to-end game.
To be honest, with a bit more luck in the first half we might have got a goal and raised the Swindon nerves a bit. After all, we won 4-0 at their place last year - and that was against a team who went on to lose the League One play-off final at Wembley.
Yet despite how well we played in that opening half I always had the suspicion we would lose this one.
Swindon have struggled at the start of this season, but were due a result.
We were in the middle of what Rovers fans would constitute a good run - three wins and a draw out of our last five games, with only the disaster at home to Tranmere interrupting a spell which could have taken us into the top five of the division.
As a Gashead, you know it's all a bit too good to be true.
And that's why I wasn't surprised when we went behind, against the run of play, in the dying minutes of the first half.
The writing was on the wall when our loan striker from Trashton, John Akinde, managed to blast his shot straight at the keeper when through on goal and our new hero, Will Hoskins, managed to blaze over the rebound when the goal was gaping just after the break.
Then we were totally outplayed for a spell of about 15 minutes in which the inevitable second goal came.
So, when it looked like a big defeat might be on the way, I was delighted we carried on fighting and managed to grab a "consolation" penalty at the death through Jeff Hughes.
Impressions? Well, all the "experts" acknowledged both sides showed some good "quality" and I only had one or two gripes.
Our manager Paul Trollope has certainly pulled things around lately, but I still feel he leaves things too late before changing them.
It was obvious during Swindon's second half purple patch that he should make a change to strengthen the midfield by withdrawing one of the strikers, but he didn't do so until after the second goal went in.
Then, with Charlie Reece on the wing and Hoskins moved into a central position, there was enough evidence to suggest we could have turned the game around had the switch been made sooner.
Also, I worry about the fact that every time the Danish Under 21s have a game we lose our first-choice goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen.
Whatever the perceived merits of his replacement Mike Green, it was evident that communications between he and the back four were haphazard, leaving us particularly vulnerable. Also, his distribution and kicking from hand is atrocious.
How often will he be called upon when Mikkel has an away day, I wonder?
And will it cost us valuable points throughout the season? Time will tell.
Still, I'm hoping that, as Trolls insists, we are a work in progress and that we weren't just performing well because of the TV cameras.
Last season we played out of our skins to beat Charlton 2-1 at home, only to finish the season with some pretty appalling results and performances.
Rochdale's manager Keith Hill was one of the experts in the TV studio on Monday.
His team come to the Mem on Saturday.
I'm hoping and praying he hasn't learned too much from our day in the limelight.
Pride of the west country...... 1
There comes a time when every supporter of the struggling, lowly, unrecognised, after-thoughts in the world of professional football get their moment in the spotlight.
Their 90 minutes of fame.
It's a time when all the millionaire poseurs who ply their trade in the Premiership get a week's holiday which is termed the international break.
It's a time when they don't do much, just jog about a football pitch and play in third gear before settling for a 0-0 draw (in England's case) with the mighty nation that is Montenegro.
Meanwhile, with nothing else to fill the airways, the tv bigwigs scout around for a game which will perhaps raise a modicum of interest with the general football-loving populous.
On Monday it was our turn - We're on the telly for the local derby at Swindon.
Just like a game show it's: Bristol Rovers, come on down!
Yes, it's our turn to be scrutinised and patronised - not, of course, by the 'top' boys like Andy Gray or Jamie Redknapp. Not even by the second team, in fact. But by 'expert' TV pundits like Don Goodman, that rather inconsequential footballer who has had more clubs than Jack Nicklaus.
And it's a chance for a presenter, not a no 1 name like Richard Keys or Jeff Stelling but on this occasion David Jones (I think), to swat up for eight days so that he can use the term Gasheads as if he knows who we are and follows our every result with keen interest.
No matter. I've had the whole weekend to look forward to it.
And a whole weekend to worry that we might be shown up in front of the watching nation, giving my "friends" around the country the chance to send me mickey-taking sneers on twitter, facebook, email and text message.
Phew, as it is, we escape that.
Ok, we go down 2-1 but I think we give a good account of ourselves in what is an entertaining end-to-end game.
To be honest, with a bit more luck in the first half we might have got a goal and raised the Swindon nerves a bit. After all, we won 4-0 at their place last year - and that was against a team who went on to lose the League One play-off final at Wembley.
Yet despite how well we played in that opening half I always had the suspicion we would lose this one.
Swindon have struggled at the start of this season, but were due a result.
We were in the middle of what Rovers fans would constitute a good run - three wins and a draw out of our last five games, with only the disaster at home to Tranmere interrupting a spell which could have taken us into the top five of the division.
As a Gashead, you know it's all a bit too good to be true.
And that's why I wasn't surprised when we went behind, against the run of play, in the dying minutes of the first half.
The writing was on the wall when our loan striker from Trashton, John Akinde, managed to blast his shot straight at the keeper when through on goal and our new hero, Will Hoskins, managed to blaze over the rebound when the goal was gaping just after the break.
Then we were totally outplayed for a spell of about 15 minutes in which the inevitable second goal came.
So, when it looked like a big defeat might be on the way, I was delighted we carried on fighting and managed to grab a "consolation" penalty at the death through Jeff Hughes.
Impressions? Well, all the "experts" acknowledged both sides showed some good "quality" and I only had one or two gripes.
Our manager Paul Trollope has certainly pulled things around lately, but I still feel he leaves things too late before changing them.
It was obvious during Swindon's second half purple patch that he should make a change to strengthen the midfield by withdrawing one of the strikers, but he didn't do so until after the second goal went in.
Then, with Charlie Reece on the wing and Hoskins moved into a central position, there was enough evidence to suggest we could have turned the game around had the switch been made sooner.
Also, I worry about the fact that every time the Danish Under 21s have a game we lose our first-choice goalkeeper Mikkel Andersen.
Whatever the perceived merits of his replacement Mike Green, it was evident that communications between he and the back four were haphazard, leaving us particularly vulnerable. Also, his distribution and kicking from hand is atrocious.
How often will he be called upon when Mikkel has an away day, I wonder?
And will it cost us valuable points throughout the season? Time will tell.
Still, I'm hoping that, as Trolls insists, we are a work in progress and that we weren't just performing well because of the TV cameras.
Last season we played out of our skins to beat Charlton 2-1 at home, only to finish the season with some pretty appalling results and performances.
Rochdale's manager Keith Hill was one of the experts in the TV studio on Monday.
His team come to the Mem on Saturday.
I'm hoping and praying he hasn't learned too much from our day in the limelight.
Wednesday 6 October 2010
Gould help us
SOME nights I wake up in a cold sweat.
At 3 in the morning I find that my throat is dry and the bedclothes are soaked.
I try to search my brain for what has scared me to such an extent that I am frozen rigid, eyes wide, shaking uncontrollably.
Then I remember the dream. Well, not a dream, more my worst nightmare.
It is of a Bristol Rovers chairman proudly announcing that after much persuasion they have invited Bobby Gould to take charge of the Gas once again.
Then I realise it is a dream, but it still keeps me awake for the rest of the night.
Because I know Gould still lives in Portishead, just around the corner.
And various people have spotted him shopping in supermarkets in close proximity to the Mem.
Oh my word.
Younger souls may wonder why I have such an irrational fear of this man stepping back into the hot seat. I'll try to explain...
I am sure that to his nearest and dearest Bobby Gould is a lovely man, cherished by his family, idolised by those near and dear- and possibly still revered by fans of Wimbledon FC.
I know the press adore him because he is always there with a friendly smile, a little joke and a ready quote.
He can charm the birds off the trees, and certainly football chairmen have fallen over themselves to put him in charge of their clubs.
He is a political animal. He says exactly what people want to hear.
And out of every single manager the Gas have had... I hate him the most.
Logical? Well, it doesn't have to be really.
That's the nature of being a football fan.
You don't need any cast-iron reasons to hate someone, you just do.
But I'll try to explain it to those youngsters who - on reading the publicity for his new book 24-carat Gould - think he sounds like a really decent sort and a good football manager.
My first memories of Bobby Gould were when he was playing for Arsenal against Swindon Town in the 1969 League Cup final.
Arsenal lost 3-1 and Gould scored their goal.
At the end of the game he cried.
It was there for all to see.
A show for the gutted Gunners fans? I think so.
Because he is an extremely good actor.
We loved him when he joined Rovers and scored a hat-trick against Blackburn on his debut.
And, of course, he said he loved us.
Eventually he became our manager, his first job. And he did ok, without pulling up any trees.
Then, as soon as his old club Coventry City came knocking, he left us. Just like that.
We're talking about the kind of guy who kisses your badge one minute... then shoots off to another club as soon as a better offer comes along - without a glance back.
In the wisdom of our board he later came back to the club, and I know many of us weren't happy about that.
You see, football isn't like any other job where you can just up sticks and move because you've had a better offer... then return when it doesn't work out.
Again, he didn't achieve much.
We needed a tactically astute manager who would take us to another level, win us promotion or some silverware.
But Gould was more Ossie Ardiles and Kevin Keegan than Brian Clough. Let's throw everything forward and hope for the best.
He tried to woo the fans over, yes. He even got the club to pay for Gasheads to travel and support the team in an away game at Walsall.
I think we lost 5-1, but those with better memories can put me right on that.
Then, when a better offer came along, he buggered off again.
Wimbledon. His one REAL success story.
He took them to the FA Cup final and a fairytale win over Liverpool.
The Crazy Gang run by a self-proclaimed "Crazy" guy.
Not bad, eh?
Except I have a sneaky suspicion that success was down to the fact Don Howe was his first team coach.
Still, that's the job of a manager - to bring in the best people for the job, so I guess he has every right to take the credit for that.
And he will.
He tries to take the credit for everything.
The number of times I have heard him babbling on about his "successes" at Bristol Rovers, how he discovered and developed this player or that player, how he changed things around so brilliantly for us. How, any time we get a modicum of success, he somehow managed to play a part in this.
This is his modus operandi. He waits for people to forget his mistakes, the number of times he opened his mouth and put his foot in it, and sprinkles fairy dust over everything.
He rewrites his past better than anyone I know.
But my association with Gould does not just extent to my time as a Gashead.
I was working as a journalist in Wales when he took the job as their national manager.
And, yes, the press loved him.
The Football Association of Wales loved him.
He said all the right things.
He said, for example, that the League of Wales (the FAW's pride and joy) would produce players for the international team. That alone probably landed him the job.
And, in fact, he even picked one for an early international, though I don't think he got off the bench.
As a national manager, though, he was pretty damn dreadful.
The one incident I remember more than anything was when Wales had lost 7-1 to Holland.
He had made Vinny Jones the captain and his tactics and his team were well and truly crucified.
Wales fans I know were pretty suicidal. Their team seemed passionless, incompetent, clueless.
Two days later Gould turns up at a press conference... wearing a Max Wall wig on his head with 7-1 written on the forehead.
Of course, we wanted to take a picture of it and splash it across the newspaper.
"This is how your manager feels about a 7-1 defeat... he thinks it's a big joke."
But he whipped it off straight away and refused.
Understandable, because I think he would have been lynched.
Later, Wales went to Turkey in a qualifier and went down 6-4.
John Toshack, then a radio pundit, slammed Gould's gung-ho tactics.
Gould rang the Beeb and DEMANDED a right of reply, and the BBC allowed him to have his say on their Saturday Evening football programme.
He spent the whole episode referring to Toshack as "... that John Fashanu".
In press quarters he became known as GobbledeGould.
Other incidents with Wales included him turning up at a press conference with a black eye as rumours circulated he had been belted by John Hartson.
He claimed it was just a "typical bit of wrestling rough and tumble" and it was something he regularly instigated on the training ground.
Yeah, right.
And in another episode he managed to insult Nathan Blake over an incident with a bib which the player claimed was a racial slur.
Yet, for Teflon Bobby, nothing sticks.
He STILL managed to get another job.
Sam Hammam, his old boss at Wimbledon, put him in charge of Cardiff City.
He did nothing there, and the Welsh fans hadn't forgotten him making their national team a bigger laughing stock than it was already, so he didn't last long.
Since then my Welsh mates have all been warning me: He'll be back at Rovers one day.
Well, he is. In a manner of speaking.
He is launching his book at a dinner.
Oh, I do hope that the directors don't get speaking to him for too long.
I really hope they don't listen to his "take" on how things could be better at the Mem.
I hope as soon as he comes near they thrust breadsticks in their ears and walk in the other direction.
Because the old charmer will work his magic.
And one day my nightmare may come true...
At 3 in the morning I find that my throat is dry and the bedclothes are soaked.
I try to search my brain for what has scared me to such an extent that I am frozen rigid, eyes wide, shaking uncontrollably.
Then I remember the dream. Well, not a dream, more my worst nightmare.
It is of a Bristol Rovers chairman proudly announcing that after much persuasion they have invited Bobby Gould to take charge of the Gas once again.
Then I realise it is a dream, but it still keeps me awake for the rest of the night.
Because I know Gould still lives in Portishead, just around the corner.
And various people have spotted him shopping in supermarkets in close proximity to the Mem.
Oh my word.
Younger souls may wonder why I have such an irrational fear of this man stepping back into the hot seat. I'll try to explain...
I am sure that to his nearest and dearest Bobby Gould is a lovely man, cherished by his family, idolised by those near and dear- and possibly still revered by fans of Wimbledon FC.
I know the press adore him because he is always there with a friendly smile, a little joke and a ready quote.
He can charm the birds off the trees, and certainly football chairmen have fallen over themselves to put him in charge of their clubs.
He is a political animal. He says exactly what people want to hear.
And out of every single manager the Gas have had... I hate him the most.
Logical? Well, it doesn't have to be really.
That's the nature of being a football fan.
You don't need any cast-iron reasons to hate someone, you just do.
But I'll try to explain it to those youngsters who - on reading the publicity for his new book 24-carat Gould - think he sounds like a really decent sort and a good football manager.
My first memories of Bobby Gould were when he was playing for Arsenal against Swindon Town in the 1969 League Cup final.
Arsenal lost 3-1 and Gould scored their goal.
At the end of the game he cried.
It was there for all to see.
A show for the gutted Gunners fans? I think so.
Because he is an extremely good actor.
We loved him when he joined Rovers and scored a hat-trick against Blackburn on his debut.
And, of course, he said he loved us.
Eventually he became our manager, his first job. And he did ok, without pulling up any trees.
Then, as soon as his old club Coventry City came knocking, he left us. Just like that.
We're talking about the kind of guy who kisses your badge one minute... then shoots off to another club as soon as a better offer comes along - without a glance back.
In the wisdom of our board he later came back to the club, and I know many of us weren't happy about that.
You see, football isn't like any other job where you can just up sticks and move because you've had a better offer... then return when it doesn't work out.
Again, he didn't achieve much.
We needed a tactically astute manager who would take us to another level, win us promotion or some silverware.
But Gould was more Ossie Ardiles and Kevin Keegan than Brian Clough. Let's throw everything forward and hope for the best.
He tried to woo the fans over, yes. He even got the club to pay for Gasheads to travel and support the team in an away game at Walsall.
I think we lost 5-1, but those with better memories can put me right on that.
Then, when a better offer came along, he buggered off again.
Wimbledon. His one REAL success story.
He took them to the FA Cup final and a fairytale win over Liverpool.
The Crazy Gang run by a self-proclaimed "Crazy" guy.
Not bad, eh?
Except I have a sneaky suspicion that success was down to the fact Don Howe was his first team coach.
Still, that's the job of a manager - to bring in the best people for the job, so I guess he has every right to take the credit for that.
And he will.
He tries to take the credit for everything.
The number of times I have heard him babbling on about his "successes" at Bristol Rovers, how he discovered and developed this player or that player, how he changed things around so brilliantly for us. How, any time we get a modicum of success, he somehow managed to play a part in this.
This is his modus operandi. He waits for people to forget his mistakes, the number of times he opened his mouth and put his foot in it, and sprinkles fairy dust over everything.
He rewrites his past better than anyone I know.
But my association with Gould does not just extent to my time as a Gashead.
I was working as a journalist in Wales when he took the job as their national manager.
And, yes, the press loved him.
The Football Association of Wales loved him.
He said all the right things.
He said, for example, that the League of Wales (the FAW's pride and joy) would produce players for the international team. That alone probably landed him the job.
And, in fact, he even picked one for an early international, though I don't think he got off the bench.
As a national manager, though, he was pretty damn dreadful.
The one incident I remember more than anything was when Wales had lost 7-1 to Holland.
He had made Vinny Jones the captain and his tactics and his team were well and truly crucified.
Wales fans I know were pretty suicidal. Their team seemed passionless, incompetent, clueless.
Two days later Gould turns up at a press conference... wearing a Max Wall wig on his head with 7-1 written on the forehead.
Of course, we wanted to take a picture of it and splash it across the newspaper.
"This is how your manager feels about a 7-1 defeat... he thinks it's a big joke."
But he whipped it off straight away and refused.
Understandable, because I think he would have been lynched.
Later, Wales went to Turkey in a qualifier and went down 6-4.
John Toshack, then a radio pundit, slammed Gould's gung-ho tactics.
Gould rang the Beeb and DEMANDED a right of reply, and the BBC allowed him to have his say on their Saturday Evening football programme.
He spent the whole episode referring to Toshack as "... that John Fashanu".
In press quarters he became known as GobbledeGould.
Other incidents with Wales included him turning up at a press conference with a black eye as rumours circulated he had been belted by John Hartson.
He claimed it was just a "typical bit of wrestling rough and tumble" and it was something he regularly instigated on the training ground.
Yeah, right.
And in another episode he managed to insult Nathan Blake over an incident with a bib which the player claimed was a racial slur.
Yet, for Teflon Bobby, nothing sticks.
He STILL managed to get another job.
Sam Hammam, his old boss at Wimbledon, put him in charge of Cardiff City.
He did nothing there, and the Welsh fans hadn't forgotten him making their national team a bigger laughing stock than it was already, so he didn't last long.
Since then my Welsh mates have all been warning me: He'll be back at Rovers one day.
Well, he is. In a manner of speaking.
He is launching his book at a dinner.
Oh, I do hope that the directors don't get speaking to him for too long.
I really hope they don't listen to his "take" on how things could be better at the Mem.
I hope as soon as he comes near they thrust breadsticks in their ears and walk in the other direction.
Because the old charmer will work his magic.
And one day my nightmare may come true...
Sunday 3 October 2010
Field of Dreams
SOMETIMES, as a Gashead, something brilliant happens.
Something so unexpected, so heart warming and so utterly unpredictable that you go around with a smile on your face for the whole weekend.
And yesterday was exactly one of those days.
Yorkshire club with new ground, pots of money, good players and high expectations 0 Bristol Rovers 1.
It was such a busy day yesterday in the offices of the national sunday newspaper where I work that only occasionally could I get a glimpse of Sky's Soccer Saturday as it warbled on in the background.
By half time we were still drawing 0-0 at Huddersfield, and going into the final minutes nothing much had changed.
Fine, I thought. After the abberation that was our home game against Tranmere in midweek, a draw was the best I could expect - yet there was still a nagging feeling in my mind that we might leave the Galpharm empty handed, scuppered by a late goal which would maroon us at the lower end of League One.
At around 4.40pm I took a seat in front of the box and started to scribble down some of the scores from our division. After all, it was my job to put together the League One page for Sunday's edition and I wanted to make sure I had them right.
Carlisle 0 Peterborough 1 (the Posh are beginning to gear up for a real Promotion push),
Dagenham 2, Swindon Town 1 (a bit of a surprise to say the least, particularly after our 3-0 win at the same ground a few weeks back), Notts County 0 Sheffield Wednesday 2 (yeah, thought it was about time the big guns in our division got going)...
As I bent my head to scribble that particular result down on a piece of paper one of my colleagues shouted out "Rovers".
I was literally petrified to look at the screen. Had we lost to a last-minute strike?
Had a player been sent off?
What?
I finally raised my head.
And stared in disbelief.
It was Bristol Rovers that was in red on the scoreline at the bottom of the screen.
Red, for those who have been stuck on a dessert Island and never had the pleasure of a satellite dish, refers to the team that has scored.
In brackets, afterwards... (Will Hoskins 90).
I couldn't contain myself. "Yaaaaaaaah! Hoskins!!!!"
My boss gave me an icy glare.
I didn't care.
Then the final score popped up.
We'd won. Away at Huddersfield. With the last kick of the game.
And, oh day of days, at the same time Bristol City had crashed 3-0 at home to Norwich and were currently lying precisely BOTTOM of the Championship.
You know Bristol City: that big club which has spent all that money, signed the England goalkeeper and every striker outside the Premiership, and is currently trying to drum up support to build a new stadium on the grounds that "it will help Bristol's bid to bring a World Cup game to the west country in 2018". Yeah, right. No self-interest involved there, then.
And all the time that little ditty so beloved of Gasheads is circling around and around in my brain.
"Never felt more like singing the Blues, when Rovers win and the City lose..."
It's payback time.
Time to have a go at the Saints supporter and all his mates who made it pretty clear to me that they had money on "that good Bristol team" to win promotion this season.
Time to take the mickey out of the guys in the office who had backed Huddersfield to notch up a convincing home win.
Time to tell the world: "Yeah, that's right I'm a Bristol Rovers fan. A Gashead. A true blue. And this is how it feels when we defy the odds and win a game of football."
The smile stayed on my face for the whole night.
Even when I was stuck in pouring rain in a traffic jam in central London for an hour and a half.
Even when, just before Membury Services, my car decided to start jumping around like a Kangeroo on crack.
Even when I pulled into the services and rang the AA, who kindly told me that someone would be with me in an hour and a half - or maybe later.
And even when I finally crawled into the house with the clock clicking around to 4am.
Of course, though my bed was beckoning, it was straight onto the BBC I-player to watch the Football League show and savour the glorious moment.
And it didn't disappoint.
Hoskins, on the left, performed one, two, three stepovers, cut inside and curled a beauty into the bottom corner. Get in.
And now, though we've got a home game against Aldershot in the PaintPot Trophy at the Mem on Tuesday, as far as league football goes I can savour this moment for eight days!
Because we don't play another game until we travel to Swindon on Monday week, due to the international break.
Wonderful.
Why am I a Gashead?
Because the plain truth is, if it wasn't for all the disappointments, I don't think the highs could feel as good as this.
Something so unexpected, so heart warming and so utterly unpredictable that you go around with a smile on your face for the whole weekend.
And yesterday was exactly one of those days.
Yorkshire club with new ground, pots of money, good players and high expectations 0 Bristol Rovers 1.
It was such a busy day yesterday in the offices of the national sunday newspaper where I work that only occasionally could I get a glimpse of Sky's Soccer Saturday as it warbled on in the background.
By half time we were still drawing 0-0 at Huddersfield, and going into the final minutes nothing much had changed.
Fine, I thought. After the abberation that was our home game against Tranmere in midweek, a draw was the best I could expect - yet there was still a nagging feeling in my mind that we might leave the Galpharm empty handed, scuppered by a late goal which would maroon us at the lower end of League One.
At around 4.40pm I took a seat in front of the box and started to scribble down some of the scores from our division. After all, it was my job to put together the League One page for Sunday's edition and I wanted to make sure I had them right.
Carlisle 0 Peterborough 1 (the Posh are beginning to gear up for a real Promotion push),
Dagenham 2, Swindon Town 1 (a bit of a surprise to say the least, particularly after our 3-0 win at the same ground a few weeks back), Notts County 0 Sheffield Wednesday 2 (yeah, thought it was about time the big guns in our division got going)...
As I bent my head to scribble that particular result down on a piece of paper one of my colleagues shouted out "Rovers".
I was literally petrified to look at the screen. Had we lost to a last-minute strike?
Had a player been sent off?
What?
I finally raised my head.
And stared in disbelief.
It was Bristol Rovers that was in red on the scoreline at the bottom of the screen.
Red, for those who have been stuck on a dessert Island and never had the pleasure of a satellite dish, refers to the team that has scored.
In brackets, afterwards... (Will Hoskins 90).
I couldn't contain myself. "Yaaaaaaaah! Hoskins!!!!"
My boss gave me an icy glare.
I didn't care.
Then the final score popped up.
We'd won. Away at Huddersfield. With the last kick of the game.
And, oh day of days, at the same time Bristol City had crashed 3-0 at home to Norwich and were currently lying precisely BOTTOM of the Championship.
You know Bristol City: that big club which has spent all that money, signed the England goalkeeper and every striker outside the Premiership, and is currently trying to drum up support to build a new stadium on the grounds that "it will help Bristol's bid to bring a World Cup game to the west country in 2018". Yeah, right. No self-interest involved there, then.
And all the time that little ditty so beloved of Gasheads is circling around and around in my brain.
"Never felt more like singing the Blues, when Rovers win and the City lose..."
It's payback time.
Time to have a go at the Saints supporter and all his mates who made it pretty clear to me that they had money on "that good Bristol team" to win promotion this season.
Time to take the mickey out of the guys in the office who had backed Huddersfield to notch up a convincing home win.
Time to tell the world: "Yeah, that's right I'm a Bristol Rovers fan. A Gashead. A true blue. And this is how it feels when we defy the odds and win a game of football."
The smile stayed on my face for the whole night.
Even when I was stuck in pouring rain in a traffic jam in central London for an hour and a half.
Even when, just before Membury Services, my car decided to start jumping around like a Kangeroo on crack.
Even when I pulled into the services and rang the AA, who kindly told me that someone would be with me in an hour and a half - or maybe later.
And even when I finally crawled into the house with the clock clicking around to 4am.
Of course, though my bed was beckoning, it was straight onto the BBC I-player to watch the Football League show and savour the glorious moment.
And it didn't disappoint.
Hoskins, on the left, performed one, two, three stepovers, cut inside and curled a beauty into the bottom corner. Get in.
And now, though we've got a home game against Aldershot in the PaintPot Trophy at the Mem on Tuesday, as far as league football goes I can savour this moment for eight days!
Because we don't play another game until we travel to Swindon on Monday week, due to the international break.
Wonderful.
Why am I a Gashead?
Because the plain truth is, if it wasn't for all the disappointments, I don't think the highs could feel as good as this.
Friday 1 October 2010
Ground Zero
Pride of Bristol 0 Impoverished poor relations of Merseyside with nine fit players and assorted schoolboys 1.
And it has taken me three days to find the words after the utter disappointment of my first visit to the Mem this season.
Why oh why, do we do it to ourselves?
Why do we let ourselves get carried away with optimism, when in the back of our minds is the nagging suspicion it will end in tears?
Two decent wins in a row and we were on a roll. We only had to turn up to the Memorial Stadium on Tuesday to get another three points and push on towards the League One summit.
At least, that was the way most of us viewed the home game against rock-bottom Tranmere.
I was so excited about getting my first glimpse of our new team.
The summer signings were starting to gell, we had a target man, 11 fit players and the confidence that back-to-back victories brings.
And for 20 minutes we were good - no argument. We looked slick, skillful and capable of tearing apart the opposition at will. But we didn't, and slowly the doubts crept in.
As I stood watching the rain come down with my mate Haydn and his stepdad Ron we kept giving knowing looks to each other: Here we go again.
After all, we had been here so many times before. Last year and a 1-0 home defeat to wobbling Walsall springs to mind, just after we seemed to be ironing out some of our problems.
When the Tranmere goal went in just before half-time I swear you could hear the collective sigh on the M32 sliproad.
Perhaps, some would argue, we expect too much of ourselves?
Certainly, there are those fans who think we are a mid-table League One team and are punching our weight. We should be happy to sit there with a record of won 3, drawn 3, lost 3.
We should be wallowing in our mediocrity.
I'm sorry, but I don't share that view.
There was enough evidence on Tuesday that in new boys Will Hoskins, Gary Sawyer and Wayne Brown (briefly) we have players capable of matching some of the best in the division.
What we didn't seem to have was a leader on the pitch, able to rally the troops after our early domination faded.
Or some good, straight forward nous.
Tranmere were there to fight for the points. They may be managed by a promoted physio, but they were well organised and ready to battle for every ball.
In contrast, for long periods the Gas didn't seem to have any constructive plan.
Perhaps the thing that annoyed me most was that at times we seemed outnumbered in midfield, and this should be where a manager earns his corn.
For all the scribbling on bits of paper that our boss Paul Trollope did during the first half, at no stage did he try to change our approach.
The one substitution he made - Brown for captain Stuart Campbell - was a like-for-like change in the middle of the park. There was no attempt to even-up the battle in midfield, to withdraw one of our three-pronged attack in favour of an additional body in the engine room. I would like to know why, but I don't think the answer will be forthcoming.
So on we go - to high-flyers Huddersfield tomorrow and then our near neighbours Swindon on Monday week. Two very tough fixtures.
I guess the one hope I will cling to is that we are consistent in our inconsistency.
We don't have a clue how we are going to perform, so why should the opposition?
It's a very thin straw to clutch at, but I will be clinging to it for grim death when we travel to Yorkshire tomorrow.
And it has taken me three days to find the words after the utter disappointment of my first visit to the Mem this season.
Why oh why, do we do it to ourselves?
Why do we let ourselves get carried away with optimism, when in the back of our minds is the nagging suspicion it will end in tears?
Two decent wins in a row and we were on a roll. We only had to turn up to the Memorial Stadium on Tuesday to get another three points and push on towards the League One summit.
At least, that was the way most of us viewed the home game against rock-bottom Tranmere.
I was so excited about getting my first glimpse of our new team.
The summer signings were starting to gell, we had a target man, 11 fit players and the confidence that back-to-back victories brings.
And for 20 minutes we were good - no argument. We looked slick, skillful and capable of tearing apart the opposition at will. But we didn't, and slowly the doubts crept in.
As I stood watching the rain come down with my mate Haydn and his stepdad Ron we kept giving knowing looks to each other: Here we go again.
After all, we had been here so many times before. Last year and a 1-0 home defeat to wobbling Walsall springs to mind, just after we seemed to be ironing out some of our problems.
When the Tranmere goal went in just before half-time I swear you could hear the collective sigh on the M32 sliproad.
Perhaps, some would argue, we expect too much of ourselves?
Certainly, there are those fans who think we are a mid-table League One team and are punching our weight. We should be happy to sit there with a record of won 3, drawn 3, lost 3.
We should be wallowing in our mediocrity.
I'm sorry, but I don't share that view.
There was enough evidence on Tuesday that in new boys Will Hoskins, Gary Sawyer and Wayne Brown (briefly) we have players capable of matching some of the best in the division.
What we didn't seem to have was a leader on the pitch, able to rally the troops after our early domination faded.
Or some good, straight forward nous.
Tranmere were there to fight for the points. They may be managed by a promoted physio, but they were well organised and ready to battle for every ball.
In contrast, for long periods the Gas didn't seem to have any constructive plan.
Perhaps the thing that annoyed me most was that at times we seemed outnumbered in midfield, and this should be where a manager earns his corn.
For all the scribbling on bits of paper that our boss Paul Trollope did during the first half, at no stage did he try to change our approach.
The one substitution he made - Brown for captain Stuart Campbell - was a like-for-like change in the middle of the park. There was no attempt to even-up the battle in midfield, to withdraw one of our three-pronged attack in favour of an additional body in the engine room. I would like to know why, but I don't think the answer will be forthcoming.
So on we go - to high-flyers Huddersfield tomorrow and then our near neighbours Swindon on Monday week. Two very tough fixtures.
I guess the one hope I will cling to is that we are consistent in our inconsistency.
We don't have a clue how we are going to perform, so why should the opposition?
It's a very thin straw to clutch at, but I will be clinging to it for grim death when we travel to Yorkshire tomorrow.
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