What a difference a win makes; a weekly routine usually spent ranting on forums, ranting to friends, ranting to myself and ranting at the cat, has proved to be fairly meek in comparison. The high winds have passed like a gentle breeze and weather frankly described as ‘bastard freezing’ has pleasantly translated to a more muted sense of feeling ‘a bit fresh’.
Feeding time for the Yak proved to be the big talking point and in particular, his celebration for the first of four, count them again, watch them again, savour them again, yes, four goals.
The Rovers' saviour chose to toast his first by embracing public-enemy-number-one, high-fiving manager Steve Kean in a romantic embrace – a thank-you if you like, thanking him for failing to land at least half-a-dozen other striking targets, before his eleventh-hour olive branch at the close of the last transfer window.
Ok, fair enough, I’m being a tad harsh on old Keano - we’re a fickle bunch after all. Last week, in the red-blooded rage of his ‘forfeit’ comments, which we are now told were taken out of context, I admit to being a little forthcoming and emotional with the occasional insult or five. I may have suggested the hope that Paul Clement whispered to him: “Steve, you’re shit” – although, I too must profess that those comments were taken out of context. If it works for footballers and managers, then it must apply to me Steve? ‘No? Okay, bollocks to you then.’ That was also out of context, for the record.
After a thumping victory, I could have been forgiven for not knowing what to do with one's self – so I did exactly what any thirty-year old male, devoid of off-spring and freshly coined from pay-day would have done: I went out and got absolutely bladdered.
The ensuing Sunday hangover took in several viewings of Saturday’s highlights, several amounting to around twenty-six; yes friends, it really has been a while. The more I watched, the more sympathy I garnered for Kean – not to mention the Yak, although if blasting in four is his reaction to being jeered, then I suggest we all chip in and make a habit out of it.
I didn’t boo, it’s not in my nature – and to be honest, I’m not sure what I made of it. I was too eager for the replay to appear on the big screen, bouncing on heels and embracing myself. Well, not myself, not in public anyway – more so a good friend, although ‘friend’ somehow sounded worse than ‘myself’ when I just wrote it.
Anyway, I digress - it didn’t anger me particularly either, although a few of the old boys around me took exception to it, a sight that is becoming more apparent and more amusing by the game. Old legends boiling with blood, calmed down by a neighbouring hand and a cough sweet before the grim reaper takes his seat at the other side: “They want their bloody heads testing that lot. Get behind em’ you buggers”. It would appear that Ewood remains divided when it comes to the protests.
Unless of course your name is David Gest – where did he come from? I thought I was still half-cut when I saw YouTube footage of the Pop-Presario - or whatever he is, I care to forget, or care at all – parading himself at the throne of the protesters, yellow t-shirt and all. They’re attracting all sorts down there these days.
Aside from the obvious, oh go on then – I’ll mention it again – the Yak and his four, yes four goals, the other pleasing points from a much needed-win were the return of the big man himself, Chris Samba, and the long-awaited cameo of the Montenegrin-in-the-mask, Simon Vukčević, offering a hand in two goals after replacing the injured Rochina.
If the magic sponge fails on the Spaniard this weekend, then it has to be an opportunity for Simon to get some much-needed playing time. We could have picked a better weekend of course, as opposed to the fanfare and furore that awaits Martin O’Neill and the crowning of the Mackems’ new king.
The defensive frailties were still there against Swansea, although Sunderland would appear susceptible to much of the same. Their back-line resembles a ghost of Manchester United’s League Cup past, although the atmosphere is likely to be white-hot, white-and-red-hot in fact. Make no mistake, this won’t be the same stadium that had turned on their previous manager, Steve Bruce, greeting Wigan’s smash-and-grab with V-signs at the exits a fortnight ago; a stern test awaits.
Back to those four goals (again), statisticians of the world correct me if I’m wrong, but the last time a Rovers player achieved that particular feat, I was a mere blue-eyed boy – five years old and visiting Ewood for the first time, something I’m not likely to forget. It was fitting that I was sat in the Nuttall Street stand that day, besides my brother, dad and granddad, the inauguration of three generations of Rovers fans – as I was the Jack Walker Stand on Saturday, minus relatives, but with said 'friend' - savouring a 6-1 victory over this weekend’s very opponents.
It was Simon Garner who etched four more in the record books that afternoon, who else? - adding weight to my dad’s boasts that we were ‘the greatest team in the world, lad’. We weren’t of course, in fact – most of that season was spent listening to the mutterings and mumblings of kindred old boys, cough sweets and all - although admittedly they were cut from slightly different cloth-caps back then, at the opposing end of the protesting spectrum to their modern-day incumbents: “Piss off Saxton and take them buggers on the board with you!”
Nobody was getting carried away in 1986 and they certainly won’t be this weekend. Alas, it’s an opportunity for the pendulum of popularity to once again take a surprising swing in Steve Kean’s favour. With two more winnable home games on the horizon, three more of the same will do very nicely, or one – we’re not greedy; feed the Yak. We are the Rovers.
Feeding time for the Yak proved to be the big talking point and in particular, his celebration for the first of four, count them again, watch them again, savour them again, yes, four goals.
The Rovers' saviour chose to toast his first by embracing public-enemy-number-one, high-fiving manager Steve Kean in a romantic embrace – a thank-you if you like, thanking him for failing to land at least half-a-dozen other striking targets, before his eleventh-hour olive branch at the close of the last transfer window.
Ok, fair enough, I’m being a tad harsh on old Keano - we’re a fickle bunch after all. Last week, in the red-blooded rage of his ‘forfeit’ comments, which we are now told were taken out of context, I admit to being a little forthcoming and emotional with the occasional insult or five. I may have suggested the hope that Paul Clement whispered to him: “Steve, you’re shit” – although, I too must profess that those comments were taken out of context. If it works for footballers and managers, then it must apply to me Steve? ‘No? Okay, bollocks to you then.’ That was also out of context, for the record.
After a thumping victory, I could have been forgiven for not knowing what to do with one's self – so I did exactly what any thirty-year old male, devoid of off-spring and freshly coined from pay-day would have done: I went out and got absolutely bladdered.
The ensuing Sunday hangover took in several viewings of Saturday’s highlights, several amounting to around twenty-six; yes friends, it really has been a while. The more I watched, the more sympathy I garnered for Kean – not to mention the Yak, although if blasting in four is his reaction to being jeered, then I suggest we all chip in and make a habit out of it.
I didn’t boo, it’s not in my nature – and to be honest, I’m not sure what I made of it. I was too eager for the replay to appear on the big screen, bouncing on heels and embracing myself. Well, not myself, not in public anyway – more so a good friend, although ‘friend’ somehow sounded worse than ‘myself’ when I just wrote it.
Anyway, I digress - it didn’t anger me particularly either, although a few of the old boys around me took exception to it, a sight that is becoming more apparent and more amusing by the game. Old legends boiling with blood, calmed down by a neighbouring hand and a cough sweet before the grim reaper takes his seat at the other side: “They want their bloody heads testing that lot. Get behind em’ you buggers”. It would appear that Ewood remains divided when it comes to the protests.
Unless of course your name is David Gest – where did he come from? I thought I was still half-cut when I saw YouTube footage of the Pop-Presario - or whatever he is, I care to forget, or care at all – parading himself at the throne of the protesters, yellow t-shirt and all. They’re attracting all sorts down there these days.
Aside from the obvious, oh go on then – I’ll mention it again – the Yak and his four, yes four goals, the other pleasing points from a much needed-win were the return of the big man himself, Chris Samba, and the long-awaited cameo of the Montenegrin-in-the-mask, Simon Vukčević, offering a hand in two goals after replacing the injured Rochina.
If the magic sponge fails on the Spaniard this weekend, then it has to be an opportunity for Simon to get some much-needed playing time. We could have picked a better weekend of course, as opposed to the fanfare and furore that awaits Martin O’Neill and the crowning of the Mackems’ new king.
The defensive frailties were still there against Swansea, although Sunderland would appear susceptible to much of the same. Their back-line resembles a ghost of Manchester United’s League Cup past, although the atmosphere is likely to be white-hot, white-and-red-hot in fact. Make no mistake, this won’t be the same stadium that had turned on their previous manager, Steve Bruce, greeting Wigan’s smash-and-grab with V-signs at the exits a fortnight ago; a stern test awaits.
Back to those four goals (again), statisticians of the world correct me if I’m wrong, but the last time a Rovers player achieved that particular feat, I was a mere blue-eyed boy – five years old and visiting Ewood for the first time, something I’m not likely to forget. It was fitting that I was sat in the Nuttall Street stand that day, besides my brother, dad and granddad, the inauguration of three generations of Rovers fans – as I was the Jack Walker Stand on Saturday, minus relatives, but with said 'friend' - savouring a 6-1 victory over this weekend’s very opponents.
It was Simon Garner who etched four more in the record books that afternoon, who else? - adding weight to my dad’s boasts that we were ‘the greatest team in the world, lad’. We weren’t of course, in fact – most of that season was spent listening to the mutterings and mumblings of kindred old boys, cough sweets and all - although admittedly they were cut from slightly different cloth-caps back then, at the opposing end of the protesting spectrum to their modern-day incumbents: “Piss off Saxton and take them buggers on the board with you!”
Nobody was getting carried away in 1986 and they certainly won’t be this weekend. Alas, it’s an opportunity for the pendulum of popularity to once again take a surprising swing in Steve Kean’s favour. With two more winnable home games on the horizon, three more of the same will do very nicely, or one – we’re not greedy; feed the Yak. We are the Rovers.
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