Something very strange happened today. I had planned to watch Bristol Manor Farm lose on penalties to Havant and Waterlooville in the FA Trophy, but events conspired to ensure I was stuck at home, too late to make it to The Creek, so instead I watched the one and only team I have ever properly supported, Bristol Rovers, who were visiting Reading on one of Sky’s many channels. Not only that, it was the first time I had seen the Gas play, albeit on the telly, for well over six years. It was a strange feeling.
But first things first. The game was played at Reading’s Whatever It’s Called These Days Stadium, a smart, modern-looking affair, which is far bigger than a run-of-the-mill third tier club probably needs. The fans must have been rattling around the stands, which could explain the complete lack of atmosphere coming across in the broadcast. This is a good time to discuss Sky’s coverage.
It was basic and functional. A bland, generic commentator and no pundit, which was no bad thing. He told us what we could already see and nothing that we couldn’t, which is not the sign of a decent commentator. When an offside was flagged, he was the last person to notice. Was he even at the game or was he doing that age old trick that Sky do with overseas games and have the commentator in a British Sky studio looking at the same pictures as the viewer? This would explain a lot.
In the first half, Reading were marginally the better team, but there wasn’t much in it. Rovers keeper Griffiths, appeared to be a decent shot-stopper (this is not usually a compliment), and that was just as well given the porous defence in front of him. The midfield was functional, the attack woeful. Their sole striker, Promise Omochere, traps the ball further than I can kick it.
Everything changed on 55 minutes when Rovers midfielder Shaq Forde got himself foolishly sent off for dissent. Rovers folded and soon Reading were ahead thanks to Sam Smith, who seemed to have taken a break from making crap records. Then, something strange happened. Reading seemed to lose concentration and Rovers came back into the game and had enough chances to equalise. By the end, it was all one way traffic and a team with a striker worth the name would surely have levelled. It appeared that Rovers manager Matt Taylor had changed tactics but unfortunately the Sky cameras followed the ball and the commentator wasn’t able to tell us.
And so it ended, Reading a little streaky, Rovers rueing their inability to hit a cow’s arse with a banjo. After all I had heard about Rovers being pretty crap this season, I didn’t think they were too bad. They lacked a decent striker and, I felt, could have used a couple of grizzled, hard-nosed pros to supplement the younger players. Oh and someone who can deliver a set piece, something substitute Isaac Hutchinson consistently couldn’t. However, from what people say, signing ‘mature’ players is the exact opposite of the team strategy. Shame.
My feeling, based on all of one game, is that the players are playing for the manager. The team is nothing special, but they’re not crap either. And barring a transfer window spending spree in the January transfer window, you’d think the best Gasheads can aim for is a run at the play offs.
Finally, let me finish with a major whinge. That away kit … what the actual fuck? A grotesque, cheap looking snot green shirt with token black quarters, designed, presumably, by a colour-blind drunk. The tatty FanHub – what is a FanHub? I definitely don’t want one – sponsorship plastered over the front of the shirts reduces the shirt to Sunday pub team quality level. The quality of the team was far better than the kit.
I’ve no desire to go back. Too much water under the bridge and, frankly, my life is so much better without the fortnightly trudge in order to be disappointed all over again. Everything has changed at BRFC since I walked away in 2018, the players, the management, the owners and the volunteer helpers and paid staff I knew and liked have all been axed. But ultimately, it’s me that’s changed, probably as much if not more than the club itself. As the Eagles once put it, you’re not quite lovers and you’re not quite friends after the thrill is gone.
