The Diary

26 February 2008: Great Auntie Glynis Dishes The Dirt About Bristol Rovers!

Coo, what a bloody day it?s been ? and not for the main reason I?m penning this piece, either. I now think of Monday as being divided into two quite different sections: first, my journey to the ground, where Tel was already queueing, and as near the front as dammit. Just as I?d suspected, in fact. More on that in but the merest passage of time, mes amis. Patience is a virtue, so rumour has it.

My second? That concerned our protracted house-buying problems, which, as regulars to this piece will immediately appreciate, have been raising their ugly heads ever since we first placed our ancestral pile on the market last summer. At least we now have significant progress ? but, again, more on that later.

But back to the first bit. As we knew demand for those precious scraps of thick paper would be somewhat heavy, Tel had volunteered to make a dawn raid upon the piece of real estate that calls itself The Hawthorns, and staking an early claim for a small piece of it, leaving this column, whose legs and back don?t stand up to protracted queuing at all well, these days, the simple task of making my own way to the Shrine by bus, then handing over relevant documentation to our well-hardy old reprobate, for him to sort out at the counter.

I had indicated to Tel that I?d be arriving between half-eight and nine, so he?d know when to expect me; even then, slightly panic-stricken, he?d tried to reach our house on his mobile, and worried even more when there was no reply (the reason being that I was waiting for the 450 bus at the time!). However, just like Cinderella, but minus glass slipper and coach and horses fashioned from both ex-Halloween pumpkin, and acquiescent rodents respectively, I did get to the ball, and well before the scheduled opening time, too.

And, despite the early morning chill ? a quick glance round at domestic front gardens not yet blessed by solar caresses revealed an icing-sugar sprinkling of frost, which must have boded badly for The Fart?s overall health and temper while waiting for me - what a gloriously sunny day we had going for us. A quick tool into our local newsagent to pick up the Mirror, a brisk walk to the next bus stop down from my ?usual?, about 70 yards further on, and I was ready as anything to face whatever nonsense Centro were going to chuck at me over the course of the next few minutes. Fair play to the local buses, though: my personal ?transport of delight? single decked, fairly crowded, turned up within around three minutes of my arrival at the stop.

Once on board, and one day-saver ticket purchase later, I was seated near the front ? but somewhat annoyingly, once more racked with the residue of the damn cough that forced me to miss Sheffield United the other week. Probably caused by the whopping disparity in temperature between the open air, and that of the bus itself, I reckon. I eventually managed to get shot of it ? by the time we?d reached the stop situated just outside Rolfe Street Station, in fact - but before that, I surely must have sounded like a consumptive in the terminal stages of that horrible disease. No wonder others gave me a pretty wide berth as I made to leave the vehicle.

Hearing news that Albion are to drastically modify their ticketing scheme to enable people to book their requirements for important games online, was music to my ears, let me tell you. It?s all going to be based upon ?loyalty points? which can quite easily be recorded within the details of each supporter?s account with the club, apparently. And not before time, either: Man City have been doing similar for years. And, even more galling, when we were in the business of churning out fanzines, we actually suggested this to the club, but just like other constructive suggestions of this nature we?d made, the concept immediately crashed and burned.

Just think. No more having to make the journey to the ground, then standing in line for several hours, possibly with half the rainfall owed to the Welsh valleys chucking down upon me, will suit me right down to the ground. But with the old system still ruling the roost this morning, it remained the archetypal Dirty Job That Just Had To Be Done, hence my reluctant, measured plod from the bus stop right outside the Hawthorns Hotel, to the Ticket Office entrance itself.

As I rounded the corner of the Astle Gates entrance ? with one quick loving pat of The King?s image, for luck: no, I?m not the only one to do that, by any means - I then proceeded through the empty, cavernous car park itself, the illusion of severe lack of people a strong one. The only real evidence of Baggie activity was the stark contrast caused by the absolute plethora of motor vehicles positioned to the rear of the aforementioned car park.

It was only when I?d rounded the corner hard by the reception door that I first came across humanity of any kind, in this case, both prostrate and snoring like drowsy seals. Interesting?.. Several people, at the very front of the line, all dressed as if for the Arctic Circle (yes, it was pretty frosty in some places, still), and curled up like so many comatose cats, now the sun had belatedly chosen to make a dramatic dawn appearance.

And remember what I?d said about Brooksie in yesterday?s offering? There he was, in the queue, as large as life, and around ten times as pongy, too. Even worse, he was standing just behind the real object of my heart?s desire, The Fart himself. Semi-recumbent, he was, and with heat loss via the head prevented courtesy of the biggest Baggies woolly hat it?s been my privilege to clap covetous eyes upon in a long while.

Once he?d attracted my attention, he then struggled, somewhat painfully, to his feet: fair play to the guy, he?d actually set out for the ground at the unearthly hour of half-five, but he wasn?t the first one there by any means. The gang I?d mentioned previously, now enjoying their somewhat belated kip-time before the place finally opened for business, had started queuing the previous evening!

But back to Brooksie. My grim forebodings had been smack-on; there he was, next to me, and as anally-emissive as ever. And that?s when the following conversation started.

Me: ?Oh, no ? not YOU! And I only mentioned the possibility in my diary last night ? gas masks, the whole bloody lot!?

Brooksie (Looking well pleased with himself: either that, or it was down to the sheer amount of methane reaching his brain cells, then altering his mood significantly?) ?Oi?m cowin? good, ay I?.??

Me: ?Good? GOOD? In the sense that clearing an entire stand in a matter of seconds is ?good??....? Then, to our toxic hero?s mate, presumably made immune from the deadly effects through long acquaintanceship, ?Did you know that methane?s a worse greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide? When the world finally goes to hell in a super-heated handcart ? which it most certainly will, trust me on that one ? just blame HIM for the mess, OK??

Well, at least I got a grin out of him: clearly, my former colleague?s evil reputation had gone before him!

Meanwhile, El Tel had borrowed my paper: ploughing quickly through the stuff on the front and back pages while I?d been giving Brooksie and his little mate their lecture on elementary gas chemistry, he came back to the headline on the front, all about Paul Gascoigne, predictably enough. ?I SAW GAZZA GO OUT OF HIS MIND?.? it screamed. The perfect moment for a war-weary Fart to laconically comment: ?Someone probably told him he had a job at the Albion waiting for him?..?

Oh, dear. Our wrinkly chum was on a real downer, still, following the traumatic events of Saturday afternoon. The basis of his argument lay, more or less, in accordance with the views I?d expressed on cyberspace last night. Taking Bednar off was a tactical disaster, ditto Phillips, not bringing Brunt in from the cold was another, as was the inclusion of Luke Moore in the party, and expecting him to make a telling contribution at a time when he was only on initial speaking terms with his new-found colleagues.

Tel also found room for a couple more issues I didn?t touch upon last night. The fraught business of the moment when Dean Kiely somewhat capriciously decided to give punters coronary thrombosis on a truly massive scale, was one ? ?He?s got to go, too erratic?.? was The Fart?s perceptive analysis of what happened.

And, while we?re on the subject of ?erratic? what about the performance of referee Tanner, who seemed to be about the business of ?letting the game flow? one minute, but pulling up people for petty infringements, the next? And being conned by the opposition courtesy some pretty awful challenges, the execution of which were cynically delayed until the precise moment the match official?s eyes were turned elsewhere.

Our chum did have a point there, reminding me also of the moment when Gera was cynically chopped down in full flight, on the right, and heading for the Hull goal as if rocket-assisted. Not quite the ?last man? but not far short, either. Given that match official?s formidable past reputation concerning the issuance of cards of whatever colour, no sooner had the offence occurred, I would have lain a year?s money on the immediate assumption he would flourish ?red? and by so doing, end the miscreant?s further involvement in the game, there and then. Strange, then, that it just didn?t happen.

It wasn?t too long after that we saw the doors of the Ticket Office flung open, and the overnighters making their weary ? and somewhat cold-stiffened, by then! ? way inside. Curious to note the message belatedly given by the luminous digital display over the counters, mind. Hull City tickets still on sale, apparently! How ?retro? do you want to be, I ask myself!

All stations being manned by then, it was only a matter of ten minutes or so before we were also flashing the cash at the counter. Two for me and His Nibs, and one for The Fart, all together. No coach, though, as we?re taking the car for this one. All in all, not too painful an experience, I?m glad to report. Why, after we?d finished, I even had time to slowly amble around to Halfords Lane, with The Fart in tow, and show him precisely where the 450 bus stop nearest the ground was located! Finally bidding our chum, who was heading for the nearby Metro station, adieu, it only remained for me to await the arrival of not so much my ?winged chariot? as Centro?s main contribution to countering the effects of global warming exacerbated so greatly by the best trumpeted efforts of my mucker Brooksie! And all in just over 20 minutes, door-to-door, too.

So that?s Bristol Rovers taken care of, then. The next item on our agenda is trying to assist The Noise in his fervent efforts to procure one. Given he?s attended far fewer away games than normal this term ? not his fault, lengthy illness and consequent drop in earnings meaning he?s had to work longer hours this season ? it?s not going to be easy, and given the news from the club is that of only 100 tickets remaining, purchase via ?normal? sources isn?t going to be the answer. I guess we?ll just have to keep a weather eye on the Boing internet discussion group, in case some of their number finds they can?t make the game after all.

Now for the bit I promised earlier: everything you could possibly want to know about Life, The Universe and Bristol Rovers. (Details taken from a similar guide I churned out for Hereford supporters? site ?Bulls News? last year, but none the less valid, for all that.)

Car parking? Awful, it really is. The Memorial Ground is situated just off the main drag that takes you into the city centre in one direction, and an area called Southmead in the other. Although they probably don?t realise, Baggie-loving followers of ?Casualty? will be well-familiar with that area, by now. How come? The exterior of the large hospital situated there has often been used for exterior shots of the fictional Holby Hospital.

Ditto another hospital close by, but situated in Frenchay, two miles further east, this time. Head in the direction of the city, though, and you?ll eventually fetch up right outside Horfield Prison! There is a pub close to the ground, on the opposite side of the aforementioned main road, in fact, but as it seems reserved for home supporters only, I wouldn?t even bother trying.

After a lot of searching (and much cruising around at such a low speed, we could have been quite easily mistaken for chronically sex-starved punters in search of a real ?paper bag job? of a prostitute, of which there are many in the area, sadly), we eventually found a likely spot, but situated a good half mile away from Ground Zero.

And all of the walk up a pretty steep incline, too - but it could have been much, much worse. Right at the bottom of the hill, in Fishponds, where the relevant M32 junction exit is located, for example. Adjacent to the former site of their Eastville ground, now a supermarket. And around a mile and a half?s worth of uphill walk before you even get within sight of the ground. The moral of the story? Either let Baggies Travel take the strain, or ensure you get there really early!

As for the Memorial Ground itself, because of its predominantly rugger-bugger ancestry, the place is both laid out - and looks - considerably different to most League grounds at that level. Or on most other levels, come to think about it! After going though the 'away' turnstiles, one for seated punters, the other for those preferring to stand ? on the occasion of our previous visit, we'd plumped for the former beforehand, for obvious reasons - you then find yourselves sitting inside a structure, behind one set of goals, that bears considerably more resemblance to the type of marquee you find at small village fetes, domestic garden parties, that sort of thing, rather than a covered area for football supporters. The indigenous Gasheads, being much more pragmatic about these things than we, actually call it 'The Tent'!

You certainly can't sue the Bristol club, citing a duff trade description as your reason. Plastic canopy comprising both roof and sides of the structure, with nice wooden floors seemingly put there solely for the benefit of people like my other half, who enjoy enormously aping their Premiership near-neighbours by doing convincing seal impersonations, clapping, stamping and honking loudly, as necessary throughout the entire 90 minutes. So impressed was I with my other half's performance that night, both before and during the game, I actually offered to open him one of the moggies? spare food pouches once we'd got back. The fish selection, naturally!

And the complete and utter incongruity of the ground doesn't end there, either. To the left is a peculiar-looking structure indeed, giving untutored eyes somewhat more than a broad hint of a cricket-type pavilion. Not extending the full length of the ground, just possessing a roof with a curious 'bump' in the middle, under which is located the camera gantry. Below, a balcony containing a small number of seats: ooh, around 150, at most, I'd say. That?s backed by what looks suspiciously like executive-box-type accommodation, to me. Probably more for the benefit of the 'rugger buggers' than anything else. Below that is Plebs? Country, a narrow strip of terracing running the full length of the pitch.

There?s terracing also behind the set of goals at the other end, covered, if I remember rightly, with a much larger and curiously tall stand to the right, and taking up a fair sized bit, but not all, of that side of the pitch. To its right is a bit of open terracing, away fans, for the use of, and with a small overflow to the left also. Incidentally, so huge was the away attendance when Hereford went there for their Cup game, Rovers had no alternative but to open that bit of the ground for business also: with some 15 minutes of the game on the clock, they were still pouring in.

Probably victims of the huge and absolutely diabolical traffic problem that calls itself Bristol, if truth?s known. Legend has it that the natives are far worse drivers than those hailing from in and around the metropolis: having experienced their somewhat arcane 'skills' at first hand on several occasions between 1978 and 1990, when I lived there, nothing at all would surprise me, coming from them, up to and including witnessing someone somehow managing to shove the front of their vehicle right through the front window of an off-licence, to the checkout lady?s considerable surprise. Amazingly, the person that did it was completely sober at the time. Again, if you?re going by car, be warned!

And it isn?t only the fabric of the place that?s peculiar, either. Let me explain via one experience in particular we had that night. Once through the turnstiles proper, 'Im Indoors tried to purchase one of their justly-famous Cornish pasties from the refreshment stall situated just inside. The trouble was, they hadn't finished warning up, yet! 'Come back in about 15 minutes, moi dear,' gurned the youth running the place.

Even more bewildering was the plight of the bloke several places in front of us: taking his goodies well in hand, he then prepared to quit the counter by plonking the teabag inside his cuppa, and giving it a good old 'swish' around inside. One small snag, though. No teabag whatsoever to be found in the water, anywhere. Nor any tea-leaves, either!

Probably thinking this an attempt by local religious leaders to emulate the multiplicity of miraculous feats for which their 'gaffer' was responsible, by delayed transmutation of the contents into the desired liquid, the bloke took his cuppa back to complain. The cause, however, was much more mundane than that, sadly: the guy serving had simply clean forgotten to introduce brown-coloured leafy infusion to cup!

Seriously, though, those Rovers pasties are simply to die for. Locally-produced, and hand-made, they knock the best efforts of Ginsters?, and similar of that mass-produced ilk, right into a cocked-hat. Sample one, and you?ll be well and truly spoiled for whatever manner of poor imitations our own outlets can offer. Football catering at its very best, those pasties, so, if you get the chance, grab one well before the kick-off. You know it makes sense.

The best laugh, that night, was a safety briefing that not one supporter in that stand, hearing-impaired or otherwise, could accurately discern: did the announcer have a day job with British Rail, or something, I wondered. On top of everything else, that meant you had all the ingredients for a crazy sort of game, out there. It being one of those places where the action is very much 'in yer face' for visiting players (Colchester's Layer Road HQ is remarkably similar, in both size and ambience), that made for a pretty atmospheric start all round. I can only imagine that the same circumstances will pertain when we finally get to play them, and as a consequence, they?ll be well fired up for it.

And talking of ?atmosphere?, at some time during the proceedings, it?s a cast-iron certainty that pre-kick-off, everyone will be subjected to that peculiarly-Bristolian form of noise pollution, a much-loved Rovers ditty called ?Good Night, Irene?, first recorded in and around the fifties by various artists with more than a smattering of the old Country and Western slant to their work.

The repeated refrain ? essentially, several different ways of saying ?Good Night Irene? (like ?Irene, Good Night?!), then the final verse, stating, somewhat lamely, ?I?ll see you in my dreams?? is truly dire. Only the equally-ghastly Chelsea paean of praise for their own favourites, ?One Man And His Dog Went To Mow A Meadow? comes anywhere near it, in terms of making you completely give up the will to live, right there and then. I am a little bit concerned for The Fart?s mental health, though: he simply can?t get enough of the blasted thing!

That?s about it, until Friday night. Back on the diary trail then, so until we next meet, as John Homer would say, ?Keep aert the ?oss-road??

And Finally?. On to the other item on my agenda, then ? the situation concerning our house. As of last weekend, things had looked really grim for our prospects of moving. We?d had a couple of offers, sure, but none actually matching what our finances for purchase of our new place would stretch to. And, to complicate things still more, the people in the house we wanted weren?t prepared to downsize their own asking price for the property, either. This had all the hallmarks of a complete impasse, on both sides. But today, one quick phone call completely turned the issue right on its head. It was the estate agents, and yes, the other people had finally woken up and smelt the distinctly parlous state of the coffee. And, in addition to that, a couple who?d liked what they?d seen yonks before, now wanted to have another look round that very same night. Rejoice, Rejoice!

Result? After a bit of haggling that would have done the 1980?s stock market absolutely no good, as far as its PR?s concerned, we finally managed to thrash out an acceptable deal. Tomorrow, I?ll be visiting our solicitors to sort out the conveyancing, and with any luck, we?ll be safely installed within the midst of our heart?s desire before you can say ?mortgage payments?. No upwards chain, see. Among other things, our new place has a fish-pond, complete with carp-like ?inmates?, something I?ve always wanted, but never been able to afford. I wonder what our three felines will make of them?

 - Glynis Wright

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