Owls of agony

I'VE started a second job, just to make ends meet.
It's on the sports desk of a red-top national daily and everything has been going well.
The blokes are all down-to-earth, decent sports addicts and the banter is first class.
For example, they have taken to calling the tough-as-teak veteran journo sat next to me "Avram".
Apparently, he was watching Match of the Day with his grandkids the other day, and one of them turned to him when the camera focused on the West Ham dugout and said, "what are you doing there, Grandad?"
Of course, the man on the screen was grumpy Hammers manager Avram Grant.
The boss is a Manchester United fan from, wait for it, Manchester.
There is also the obligatory Saints fan a couple of seats down.
They have shown me a lot of respect since I've been there.
Until yesterday.
That was when the chirpy Cockney wide boy across the desk raised the inevitable question: "Who's your team then?"
I thought about lying, telling them that I had a deep affinity for the Red Devils going back to the age of seven.
Or maybe that I'd been a lifelong follower of Barcelona, ever since a memorable holiday in Spain.
But I'm not very good at lying. Think the bloke would have noticed.
My face had gone red, my hands were shaking and I was doodling nervously on a piece of paper.
Into my collar I muttered, "Bristol Rovers".
"Oh dear," came the pittying reply.
Now, in the past I would have puffed my chest out, looked him in the eye and replied in a firm, confident manner.
But recently that pride has been diminished somewhat.
I don't like being pitied.
And I've normally had a good response, have been able to protest that my team at least gave all they had and punched above their weight on occasions.
In all honesty, I can't say that now.
A 6-1 defeat at League Two Oxford, a 3-0 loss at home to seasoned strugglers Orient, and a 2-1 exit to non-league Darlington in the first round of the FA Cup.
Saturday's result, though, was the final straw.
Former big northern club whose best days have long gone 6, Clueless Shambles 2.
What made it worse was that Sheffield Wednesday fans had been describing us as a "Nobody club" on their message boards all week.
It had infuriated a fair few of our supporters, who had promised to sing their hearts out at Hillsborough to let them know exactly who we were.
And they expected our beloved Gas to play their hearts out in response.
After all, it's the Rovers way.
Or not.
In fairness, despite our mediocre position in the league table 1,500 fans turned up.
They had about 10 minutes to cheer, with the Gas having taken an early lead through our one shining star, Will Hoskins.
After that? By all accounts, diabolical.
We conceded four in the first 32 minutes and ended up being relieved to have only let in six.
I saw the highlights on the Football League Show. Absolutely embarrassing.
I've always wanted the Gas to make headlines, but not in this way.
And despite our many years of plumbing the depths of the Football League's basement I can rarely remember being so ashamed of my allegiance.
But that is how I feel today. Ashamed.
We are told we have dispensed with quantity to bring in quality players.
And in fairness, I've been pretty impressed with the likes of Hoskins and Wayne Brown.
But a team has nothing unless it has a bit of fight, a bit of bottle, a team ethic which says we will fight for the cause to our last breath.
I cast around our very competitive division and look at sides who, on paper, have not got as much going for them as us.
Tranmere, run on a shoestring with a bunch of kids making up their team.
Brentford, playing at a ground as run down as ours and boasting very few players we would covet.
Orient, as I've said before little club and serial relegation fighters.
Exeter, equally small, with few players to strike fear into the hearts of the opposition.
All above us now as we sit perilously in the bottom four of League One for the first time. Each with a manager who is getting more out of his team than its parts would suggest.
Our manager Paul Trollope said we could only judge things after 10-12 games when the table would start to sort itself out.
Well, it is doing that now - so is this our true position?
And, if not, how have we got to this situation?
The odd thrashing can be put down to a blip, a bad day at the office, an opponent that has just too much class and spending power . . .
But 5-0, 3-0, 6-1, 6-2, 4-0, 0-3, 6-2 - All in the space of a single year?
With a team largely put together by a manager who claims to have identified Championship class players capable of getting us into the play-offs.
I'm sorry, but however thankful everyone is for Mr Trollope's efforts, his unstinting hard work and the way he delivered us out of the black hole of League Two while giving us two big days out to savour at Wembley and the Millennium Stadium, it has to be plain that he has lost his way.
And for all the brave statements, the urging of the players to "bounce back" which seems to come every fortnight, and the bullish assertion that "the group" is capable and that spirit is still high, it is now plainly evident he has failed.
And failed miserably.
I'm sorry Paul, but it is time to go, and even a win in the Paint Pot tomorrow won't gloss over the evidence...