I like to embrace the unknown, always have done. New pins to stick in the map, sights to see, sounds to absorb, people to meet, places to marvel at, etcetera , etcetera, etcetera. You get the gist. By the same token, I’ve always welcomed visitors from foreign lands – whether they be ten miles down the road (not East though, obviously) or from a different country entirely. My best mate at college was from Bolton for example, not that exotic admittedly – but he spoke differently, one of those plastic Mancunian accents, quasi-Liam Gallagher, you know the one.
I’m the kind of chap who’d give a lift to a bloke in a balaclava because I liked his accent, blissfully unaware of the semtex obscenely sellotaped around his chest.
I routinely talk utter bollocks to taxi-drivers for similar reasons, usually about cricket - breathing ale and chilli sauce all over them, leaning through the seats – instantaneously presuming that they’re all in love with the sport. Some entertain me, most simply play along as I’m pouring shrapnel out of my pocket in a blind-drunk moment of charity. I like doing my bit.
“Cheers mate, it’s been emotional. I promise I’ll visit Bangladesh one day”. My change magically disappears when those collectors with tins pass me by; I daren’t move a muscle for the slightest rattle of a five-pence-piece embracing a pound. I turn into Bob Geldof when I’ve had a skin-full.
It was the same when the Venky’s arrived, amused by the Rao brothers’ solitary wave to the cameras - one of them dripping in gold, looking like he had a mini-Uzi tucked into his blazer pocket, the other one looking a bit ‘special’, not too sure where he was and what he’d let himself in for. Turns out he was right.
I blame that Danny Boyle. I’ve wanted to visit India ever since ‘Slumdog Millionaire’. I’d be no good in ‘28 Days Later’ mind, staggering out of the kebab-shop, hunting in those deep-pockets whilst the living dead are gnawing my arm off. You never could tell friend from foe at 2am on Darwen Street.
Back to the Venky’s – where was I, ah yes, initial thoughts being positive. Bit of cash finally, no more Herold Goulons, exposure in the middle-east, ‘We’re gonna do X, Y and Z’ – you know the script by now.
All that chicken stuff pissed me off and yes, I was absolutely delighted when they axed Allardyce (I make a point of not calling him ‘Big Sam’ – to do that, would express some form of affection towards the man, or myth, whichever way). I’ve argued the points on numerous online forums – but the simple fact is thus: the football was crap. Nobody can argue with that. We’ll leave it there and agree to disagree, or agree, which would be better.
I’m also a champion of the underdog, besides the unknown – so it will come as little surprise that I was a fan of Steve Kean to begin with. His managerial inexperience intrigued me, I wanted to know more – Uefa Pro Licence, nice; played and coached abroad, interesting; speaks several languages, fluent in Portuguese, sold! He’s not the best-looking mind, but never mind all that, this is football lad: ‘There’s only one Keano!’
…and then he opened his mouth to the cameras every week. Now, don’t get me wrong – I’ve risen above this more than most. All football managers talk nonsense. Wenger’s made a career out of it; Ferguson, although mildly amusing and witty in recent years (must be the wine) used to be a right…, well, we won’t go there; Mourinho: once the charm has worn off, soon becomes very tedious, probably explains why he buggers off to a new country every few years; as for Capello, who’s teaching him English? Ranieri?
Maybe we’d love Kean more if he lost it every now and again, did a Mike Bassett or Keegan – or Big Ron when he threw his toys at Richard Keys and then threw the microphone at the cameraman, only to realise what he’d done and apologise. That’s how you do it.
I still feel some sympathy for Kean, I really do. I don’t hate the man and want him to burn in hell (read the forums) – he’s a human-being after all. What’s it matter if we’re second from bottom in the league and in all likelihood, heading down to the football league? Ah, okay then, where did I put that pitchfork?
It’s been a turbulent year, at first they couldn’t say enough – talking of Beckham and Ronaldinho, Champions League and other rubbish. These days, you can’t get a word out of them edgeways – a blanket of silence. Either way, it’s the fans that are suffering.
Last week, I talked of ‘Wigan or Bust’ – we didn’t bust in the end, but we didn’t win either, in fact, I don’t think we know how to win anymore. We got off to the perfect start, instantly surrendered it and were completely outplayed from that moment on. Samba, Lowe and Olsson were big absentees, although I’m still at a loss to explain how the latter managed to play 90 minutes for Sweden in midweek. Fergie wouldn’t have it, pissed or not.
To further unsettle what had become a settled team, Kean, in his infinite wisdom – dropped Formica for Dunn. We love you Dunny, we always will, pissed or not – but watching every attack break down whilst you’re busy trying to keep up is becoming increasingly painful. It’s like watching the family-pet deteriorate – he wouldn’t look out of place with one of those giant cones round his neck, so he can’t chew on his stitches. In truth, the ten-men were better than the eleven and we were better for his absence – although it helped having an excuse as to why our fellow strugglers continued to give us the run-around. As for Salgado, I give up – time to get the message Steve, open your eyes and realise that he’s finished; a complete and utter liability.
We can’t even take a crafty corner right can we? Crafty enough though. Much like Andre Marriner (very exotic, until you discover he’s from Sheldon, West Midlands), I had my back turned too.
I was busy trying to diffuse another argument in the stands at the time. I ended up splitting it up, by telling them to watch the match, although I may have been a bit more choice with my language in all fairness and one of them was my Dad. Anyway, five seconds later: goal. Hugs and kisses all round. In football, that’s all it takes.
Venky’s to Dunn, Kean to Salgado and finally, to complete our series of heroes turned villains, or indeed vice-versa, Paul Robinson: we salute you. There was a collective release of emotion that greeted both award and penalty in the 53 rd minute of stoppage time, with a sustained period of buttock clenching in-between, and at moments like that - it’s easy to confuse injury-time equalisers with winners. Sure felt like it though, however glazed with fortune.
And so to Stoke, a ground that has been far from kind in recent years; Allardyce’s Rovers were completely outplayed there three times, out-mastered and out-fought by his very muse, the special one himself: Tony Pulis.
Despite the fact that he looks like he’s been let out on day-release, I secretly admire Pulis. Where as watching Rovers under Allardyce resembled Alex De-Large in Clockwork Orange, strapped to a chair, eyelids pinned open, being force-fed re-runs of Wimbledon, John Beck’s Cambridge and snippets of Ian Ormondroyd whilst screaming with terror - Pulis’ at least appears to offer added extras to his direct style of play. He combines it with pace and craft on the flanks for instance and a decent striker or two. He’s worked wonders at Stoke and were it to change, you suspect they’d be back in the lower leagues – probably with us at this rate.
The game’s on TV, so I don’t expect many to be there – less arguments at least. There’s certainly one fan who will be absent on Saturday and let me close in taking a moment to remember one of our own, a fellow member of football’s family, a lifelong Rovers supporter: John Taylor.
John tragically lost his life at the Britannia twenty-one months ago, through what can only be described as a freak accident. In times of supporter discontent, it really puts things into perspective. Football shapes the mood of our daily lives sometimes, but it’s incomparable to life or death. There’s only one John Taylor, may he rest in peace. Let our thoughts be with his family and friends. Raise your glasses ladies and gentlemen. As long as we all stick together, this famous club of ours – and it is OURS, not theirs - will always have a heart-beat. We are the Rovers.
I’m the kind of chap who’d give a lift to a bloke in a balaclava because I liked his accent, blissfully unaware of the semtex obscenely sellotaped around his chest.
I routinely talk utter bollocks to taxi-drivers for similar reasons, usually about cricket - breathing ale and chilli sauce all over them, leaning through the seats – instantaneously presuming that they’re all in love with the sport. Some entertain me, most simply play along as I’m pouring shrapnel out of my pocket in a blind-drunk moment of charity. I like doing my bit.
“Cheers mate, it’s been emotional. I promise I’ll visit Bangladesh one day”. My change magically disappears when those collectors with tins pass me by; I daren’t move a muscle for the slightest rattle of a five-pence-piece embracing a pound. I turn into Bob Geldof when I’ve had a skin-full.
It was the same when the Venky’s arrived, amused by the Rao brothers’ solitary wave to the cameras - one of them dripping in gold, looking like he had a mini-Uzi tucked into his blazer pocket, the other one looking a bit ‘special’, not too sure where he was and what he’d let himself in for. Turns out he was right.
I blame that Danny Boyle. I’ve wanted to visit India ever since ‘Slumdog Millionaire’. I’d be no good in ‘28 Days Later’ mind, staggering out of the kebab-shop, hunting in those deep-pockets whilst the living dead are gnawing my arm off. You never could tell friend from foe at 2am on Darwen Street.
Back to the Venky’s – where was I, ah yes, initial thoughts being positive. Bit of cash finally, no more Herold Goulons, exposure in the middle-east, ‘We’re gonna do X, Y and Z’ – you know the script by now.
All that chicken stuff pissed me off and yes, I was absolutely delighted when they axed Allardyce (I make a point of not calling him ‘Big Sam’ – to do that, would express some form of affection towards the man, or myth, whichever way). I’ve argued the points on numerous online forums – but the simple fact is thus: the football was crap. Nobody can argue with that. We’ll leave it there and agree to disagree, or agree, which would be better.
I’m also a champion of the underdog, besides the unknown – so it will come as little surprise that I was a fan of Steve Kean to begin with. His managerial inexperience intrigued me, I wanted to know more – Uefa Pro Licence, nice; played and coached abroad, interesting; speaks several languages, fluent in Portuguese, sold! He’s not the best-looking mind, but never mind all that, this is football lad: ‘There’s only one Keano!’
…and then he opened his mouth to the cameras every week. Now, don’t get me wrong – I’ve risen above this more than most. All football managers talk nonsense. Wenger’s made a career out of it; Ferguson, although mildly amusing and witty in recent years (must be the wine) used to be a right…, well, we won’t go there; Mourinho: once the charm has worn off, soon becomes very tedious, probably explains why he buggers off to a new country every few years; as for Capello, who’s teaching him English? Ranieri?
Maybe we’d love Kean more if he lost it every now and again, did a Mike Bassett or Keegan – or Big Ron when he threw his toys at Richard Keys and then threw the microphone at the cameraman, only to realise what he’d done and apologise. That’s how you do it.
I still feel some sympathy for Kean, I really do. I don’t hate the man and want him to burn in hell (read the forums) – he’s a human-being after all. What’s it matter if we’re second from bottom in the league and in all likelihood, heading down to the football league? Ah, okay then, where did I put that pitchfork?
It’s been a turbulent year, at first they couldn’t say enough – talking of Beckham and Ronaldinho, Champions League and other rubbish. These days, you can’t get a word out of them edgeways – a blanket of silence. Either way, it’s the fans that are suffering.
Last week, I talked of ‘Wigan or Bust’ – we didn’t bust in the end, but we didn’t win either, in fact, I don’t think we know how to win anymore. We got off to the perfect start, instantly surrendered it and were completely outplayed from that moment on. Samba, Lowe and Olsson were big absentees, although I’m still at a loss to explain how the latter managed to play 90 minutes for Sweden in midweek. Fergie wouldn’t have it, pissed or not.
To further unsettle what had become a settled team, Kean, in his infinite wisdom – dropped Formica for Dunn. We love you Dunny, we always will, pissed or not – but watching every attack break down whilst you’re busy trying to keep up is becoming increasingly painful. It’s like watching the family-pet deteriorate – he wouldn’t look out of place with one of those giant cones round his neck, so he can’t chew on his stitches. In truth, the ten-men were better than the eleven and we were better for his absence – although it helped having an excuse as to why our fellow strugglers continued to give us the run-around. As for Salgado, I give up – time to get the message Steve, open your eyes and realise that he’s finished; a complete and utter liability.
We can’t even take a crafty corner right can we? Crafty enough though. Much like Andre Marriner (very exotic, until you discover he’s from Sheldon, West Midlands), I had my back turned too.
I was busy trying to diffuse another argument in the stands at the time. I ended up splitting it up, by telling them to watch the match, although I may have been a bit more choice with my language in all fairness and one of them was my Dad. Anyway, five seconds later: goal. Hugs and kisses all round. In football, that’s all it takes.
Venky’s to Dunn, Kean to Salgado and finally, to complete our series of heroes turned villains, or indeed vice-versa, Paul Robinson: we salute you. There was a collective release of emotion that greeted both award and penalty in the 53 rd minute of stoppage time, with a sustained period of buttock clenching in-between, and at moments like that - it’s easy to confuse injury-time equalisers with winners. Sure felt like it though, however glazed with fortune.
And so to Stoke, a ground that has been far from kind in recent years; Allardyce’s Rovers were completely outplayed there three times, out-mastered and out-fought by his very muse, the special one himself: Tony Pulis.
Despite the fact that he looks like he’s been let out on day-release, I secretly admire Pulis. Where as watching Rovers under Allardyce resembled Alex De-Large in Clockwork Orange, strapped to a chair, eyelids pinned open, being force-fed re-runs of Wimbledon, John Beck’s Cambridge and snippets of Ian Ormondroyd whilst screaming with terror - Pulis’ at least appears to offer added extras to his direct style of play. He combines it with pace and craft on the flanks for instance and a decent striker or two. He’s worked wonders at Stoke and were it to change, you suspect they’d be back in the lower leagues – probably with us at this rate.
The game’s on TV, so I don’t expect many to be there – less arguments at least. There’s certainly one fan who will be absent on Saturday and let me close in taking a moment to remember one of our own, a fellow member of football’s family, a lifelong Rovers supporter: John Taylor.
John tragically lost his life at the Britannia twenty-one months ago, through what can only be described as a freak accident. In times of supporter discontent, it really puts things into perspective. Football shapes the mood of our daily lives sometimes, but it’s incomparable to life or death. There’s only one John Taylor, may he rest in peace. Let our thoughts be with his family and friends. Raise your glasses ladies and gentlemen. As long as we all stick together, this famous club of ours – and it is OURS, not theirs - will always have a heart-beat. We are the Rovers.
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