My, my, my, the West Terrace were not happy with this result. Two different referees came and went, departing with bellowed boos ringing in their ears. A ceaseless sequence of soft fouls, compounded by the dubious sending-off of the home team's right back, propelled the crowd into an attitude of stern recalcitrance. The world is against Bristol Rovers, or is it rather that, on this particular day, a rough and tumble derby was squeezed out of their nervous grasp.How could I resist the autumnal bite of this hot-headed encounter? Gamesmanship, the bane of all downtrodden football supporters, was in full flow to the extent that my jaw locked into a type of gurn which similarly afflicts thousands of lower league devotees every weekend. Yet my own mildly feigned indignance was no match for the old man standing next to me. With each tweet of the referee's whistle, this moody codger swayed his head back and forth with the fury of a Hong Kong action flick. As the match stumbled to an irritating climax, I was seriously wary of the danger from a geriatric headbutt.
Bristolians react in strange ways to football, most of which are hilarious. One excited chap, for instance, moaned with a bovine variation on the classic "ooh!" with every close call to the goal. To my own private delight, Matty Taylor's wayward shots were greeted with a shriek of "moowaah!" every single time, without fail. Someone should have called DEFRA because it sounded like Mad Cow Disease had broken out in BS7.
In all fairness, the fans have every right to feel a little aggrieved, especially when over 7000 attended this mercifully forgetful game. The Gas are at a historic low and yet they still cannot score goals. For all his flaws, at least Matty Taylor creates chances for himself and his teammates. His positioning is good, he has the skills to run at defenders and the raw pace to get behind his opposite number. But, crucially, his finishing is awful.
Adam Cunnington, meanwhile, only feels the urge to stroll into the box about twice every match. For the rest of the ninety minutes he seems to attempt a faultless impersonation of the never-lamented Kevin Kyle. A lamp-post could make a more significant contribution to a team on this form than the lanky striker.
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| David Batty gets stuck in to his prey. |
But hey, what do I know about football, anyway? As a committed student of the 'David Batty School of Footballing Excellence' I have never, nor actually wanted, to hit the ball in the back of the net. A crunching slide tackle is far more satisfying.
Speaking of the ex-England midfield enforcer, he would have been proud of Daniel Leadbitter's uncompromising challenge in the second half. Leadbitter, a son of the greatest city on Earth, struck his opponent with a forceful impact for a 50-50 ball - although there was no question of malice on his part. Sadly, you can't play like Batty anymore (you probably couldn't when he was still playing, to be honest), and the already unpopular referee made himself the most disliked man in Horfield by dismissing the Pirates' defender.
At that point the visitors were already one goal ahead after sloppy defending from a corner. It is not the first time I have written that sentence this season and, I daresay, it won't be the last. Until the goalkeeper learns how to catch high balls it will prove to be a continually damaging weakness.
The next match at the Memorial is not until November 15th so I will have to write about something else for a while. Maybe I might start that epic socialist novel I have been planning. Or not... Who knows? At least we get a three week holiday from the drudgery of more Conference action.
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