By Glynis Wright
Bristol Rovers doing battle with The Bulls in the FA Cup 3rd Round was an encounter I regarded as something of an 'amuse bouche' to the 'main course' being served up at the Hawthorns for our delectation tomorrow, with televised 'afters' kicking off on both Sunday and Monday, presumably. At least I didn't have to scrabble about for our well-dog-eared A to Z this time: no, sirree, we've got a proper Satnav to perform that onerous chore for us, now. Prior to this week, we'd have had to enlist the services (and good eyesight) of our chum Martin, especially when it came to sussing out all the more obscure routes to London sides taking us on at home, but now we let our little box of electronic tricks take the strain.
Mind you, we hadn't gone more than around five miles, when I felt the distinctive urge to just chuck it out of the window, and pretend we'd never bought the blasted thing on the first place. How come? No, not the voice telling us where to take turnings, etc, just the fact that the bloody thing wouldn't stay stuck to our windscreen, no matter what I tried to do to make it stay there. Eventually, after rather more bad language than is normal for a lady of my advanced years, I finally made the thing stay where it was meant to, but it was a close run thing: that, or my patience finally running out of road!
Anyway, once we'd joined the southbound M5, it then behaved impeccably, and troubled us no more. And, to tell the truth, I was dead impressed with its accuracy, and the clarity of the spoken instructions issuing forth every time our progress met with an alternative travel option. Real idiot-proof navigation, it was, and I truly marvelled. With an Aussie voice, no less, and just one of a range of vocal options, apparently. (I'm now seriously whether there's any commercial mileage to be had by coming up with a thick as s**t Dingle (a supporter of Wolverhampton Wanderers) type voice, or, looking at the thing more laterally, a curmudgeonly old fart whinging and moaning about their rheumatics every single time they're asked to give directions - alternative!) Had someone told me around 30 to 40 years ago we'd all be carrying little gadgets that size in our cars, and to ease considerably the palaver of getting from known A to unknown B, I'd have weed myself laughing at them: either that, or sent for the little men in white coats, I suppose.
But don't knock it|: get us there it did, and with loads of time to spare, too. A shame it couldn't have indicated some good parking places at the same time, but that's the navigational game for you, I suppose. Anyway, after a lot of searching, we eventually found a likely spot, but situated a good half mile away from Ground Zero. And up a steep incline, too, something that didn't do my own back troubles much good, either, but it could have been much worse. Right at the bottom of the hill, in Fishponds, where the relevant M32 junction is located, for example. Mind you, the technology having come as a by-product of research and development of intercontinental ballistic missile technology, you'd have the thought that the very least it could do would be taking out pretty sharpish a few of the cars preventing us from parking in a more sensible spot!
It's pretty amazing who you can bump into when going to neutral games, mind: in our case, it was WBASC Kiddy Branch head honcho Roy Hayden, going native in his spare time, but currently heading in the opposite direction, in order to transfer some purchases made in the Rovers shop to his car, parked a good deal nearer the place than we had. But, then again, he'd arrived that much earlier than we, hadn't he?
As for the Memorial Ground itself, because of its predominantly rugger ancestry, the place was both laid out - and looked - considerably different to most League grounds at that level. Or 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 - we'd plumped for the former beforehand, for obvious reasons - we then found ourselves sitting inside a structure, behind one set of goals, that bore 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 couldn't sue the Bristol club, citing a duff trades description as your reason. Plastic canopy comprising the roof, and the 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, 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 didn't end there, either. To our left was a peculiar-looking structure indeed, giving our untutored eyes somewhat more than a broad hint of a cricket-type pavilion. Not extending the full length of the ground, and possessing a roof with a curious 'bump' in the middle, under which was the camera gantry. Below, a balcony containing a small number of seats: ooh, around 150, at most, I'd say. That was backed by what looked suspiciously like executive-box-type accommodation. Probably more for the benefit of the 'rugger buggers' than anything. Below that was Plebs? Country, a narrow strip of terracing running the full length of the pitch.
There was 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 our right, and taking up a fair sized bit, but not all, of that side of the pitch. To its right was 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 tonight, Rovers had no alternative but to open that bit of the ground for business: 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 were known. Legend has it that the natives are worse drivers than those hailing from the metropolis: having experienced their 'skills' at first hand on several occasions between 1978 and 1990, when I lived there, nothing at all would surprise me, coming from them.
And it wasn't only the fabric of the place that was peculiar, either. 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 batter was the plight of the bloke several places in front of us: taking his goodies well in hand, he prepared to quit the counter by taking 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 tealeaves to drink from, either!
Thinking this an attempt by local religious leaders to emulate the multiplicity of miraculous feats their 'gaffer' was responsible for by performing a 'delayed-action' transmutation of the contents into the desired liquid, no doubt, 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!
We'd already seen The Two Old Ladies Of The Night, Mavis and May, so we simply headed off in their direction, 'Im Indoors still muttering darkly about the non-availability of warm food and drink right at the time you most wanted it, then plonking ourselves down right next to the pair of 'em. Just as 'Im Indoors headed away for a second attempt to claim his steaming prizes, above our horizon came steaming a very busy Nick Brade, flogging Hereford 'zines like they were going out of fashion. Also bearing his own newly-purchased comestibles, he was, and plonking himself directly in front of us. And, much later, came 'Talking Bill' The Noise's Herefordian 'alter ego'. Based quite near that city, is Bill, so tonight's trip would have been a relative doddle for him. Curiously, he was unimpressed with suggestions that 'its all back to your place afterwards then'?
Some moments later, back came my other half, all the goodies in hand. 'Ah, he's back', said I, 'We can start the game, now'.? Certainly, but a minimal amount of minutes after I'd said that, both lots of combatants emerged from the players' tunnel. One truly horrible moment: just before beforehand, the Rovers PA had promised 'A reminder for all Gasheads (named after the gasworks that used to exist hard by their old Eastville HQ, by the way) of our Twerton Park days' - That was the reason why those sitting the closest to us were treated to the instantaneous sight of two grown adults simultaneously emitting loud, anguished moans: no, we did NOT want to be reminded of what transpired between both their club and ours, back in May 1991, thank you very much!
Add to all that a safety briefing that not one supporter in that stand, good hearing or otherwise, could accurately discern, and you had all the ingredients for a crazy sort of game in place. 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. The problem was, though, Hereford were labouring gamely on, despite the sick-note nature of their forwards and the painfully returned home nature of their key loaned midfielders.
One of their lads had managed to go down with a nasty dose of glandular fever, a debilitating viral malady that leaves those suffering from it very run down, and sometimes depressed, and that can go on for months, in severe cases. That was why I couldn't believe my eyes upon seeing him named as one of their subs! Another was suffering from an equally virulent complaint, although I couldn't quite find out the precise nature of the malady affecting him. He too was tenanting the bench: I could only hope that the demands of modern football of someone already debilitated wouldn't result in a setback for the lad.
It's fair to say that the first half was a pretty close-fought thing. Up until around the 30 minute mark, both sides were putting in the necessary spadework along the flanks, and at times, the visitors looked capable of doing even more. What held them back, proved to be their undoing in the end, was the lack of any sort of cutting-edge about their play. Approach work good, final ball into the box absolutely awful! As for genuine attempts upon goal, I reckon Hereford had only the one in the entire first half.
Then, with 23 gone, tragedy struck for The Bulls. Wayne Brown brought down a marauding Bristolian, and in the box, too. Not surprisingly, the ref pointed straight to the spot, and Rovers didn't waste any time putting it away, either. That put them ahead, and slightly against the run of play, I would say, but that's what you get for not capitalising upon the few scoring chances you do see coming your way, isn't it?
And then there was the fun and games at the other end, when the home side's keeper Phillips went down, and to what the visiting contingent massed behind that goal deemed to be thespian behaviour writ large. Well, it certainly seemed that way to me, what with holding his head, at first, then switching to his knee once the ref had stopped the game, as he was bound to do in such cases. Clearly, he had suffered damage of some sort, but I strongly suspected the lily was being gilded, and to a near-unacceptable degree, too. From then on, every single time that custodial gentleman touched the ball in anger, he was getting it in the neck from that enormous Bulls contingent penned right behind him!
Come the interval - no mints, Mavis and May? How dare you let the side down, ladies! Had to giggle, mind, at Nick's comment about their PA bloke and his assertion, as both sides left the pitch: 'Great noise from The Gas, first half'.? Yeah, 'great noise from The Gas',? mimicked he, 'Someone's house just blew up'.? Before we knew it, even, they were kicking off for the second half of the evening's fun and frolics. This time, The Bulls were shooting towards their opponents' home terrace, and more to the point, making a right old pigs ear of it, too! Oh dear - not exactly in the noble tradition of Ronnie Radford, Nemesis of Geordies everywhere, following his astonishing goal for the cider-slurpers circa 1972, and that historic Third Round replay with their novocastrian opponents, from which they emerged triumphant. More in the noble tradition of the scrap yard just down the hill, really!
Sure, they huffed and they puffed, but try as they might, they just couldn't blow the home side's house down. Life's a real sod when you can't put the ball away to save your life, isn't it, Albion? Even the introduction of Andy Williams into the Herefordian fray - the goalscorer, not the crooner! - couldn't swing it for them, so the final whistle must have come as some sort of merciful release for them, I suppose. A shame, that, because had the visitors been at something resembling full strength and fitness, I reckon Rovers would have been 'passed to death', so to speak. As it is, they're reduced to spectator status, and a good 12 hours before anyone else gets to have a go, too.