Chris Brown, author of the excellent Bovver was hoping for something to celebrate at the weekend. Unfortunately, as is so often the case with Rovers, things didn't go to plan; Chris wrote to the Gaslist to explain why and he's allowed us to reproduce his excellent mail here (thanks Chris).

Saturday was my birthday, I woke up to some great presents (a drive in a tank,how cool is that??), I was 50, 5 of us went for a cracking champagne and fry up breakfast, brilliant, even if it was in the shadow of Trashton. I put a £5 bet on Rovers to win 5-0 (the bookie laughed and asked if I could come in every week) and I bought a 50-50 ticket (anyone know the winning ticket number?). Rovers followed the script that they have followed for so many, many years and lost to a team who play in yellow and who were bottom of the league – you should, never, ever lose to teams who play in yellow, well apart from Brazil or Sweden I suppose. Thanks to whoever asked Nick Day to wish me a happy birthday at half-time - I didn't hear it, I was in the bar discussing the game, not one person thought we would win, they were more interested in who was going to win X-Factor.

Rovers reverted to the long ball, now there was a surprise, Junior (without the aid of Walker and the All Stars - 'How sweet it is' - nice one Black Arab) went on a disappearing act. Curruthers, Lescott and Gibb, that well known trio of chartered accountants posing as footballers, in particular huffed, puffed and finally gave up. Haldane come on and once again proved that he's not going to make it as a league player, but then again he's in good company, neither did the rest of them.

I didn't hear the final whistle, I was already in the bar, thank you Bristol ****king City, I couldn't even rely on you to redeem my day (oh and my other team, WBA also lost - don't ask why the Baggies, I've never worked it out either).

Got home, drank champagne and went to the pub for my party - big Santa Claus in the bar decked out in blue and white (the landlord's an old Tote End boy). Kicked off the music at 8pm (Junior Walker's 'Shotgun' - much more appropriate). As the night rolled on, and on and on it struck me that apart from the one or two token sh*theads (blokes who I used to work with, both really top geezers, who should have been gasheads anyway) every single person there was either 1. a gashead or 2. married to a gashead or 3. both - not surprising I guess, but Ithen thought how many of them still went to watch the Rovers, a quick headcount revealed that there were about 75 people there, but after a few more pints of the appropriately named 'Doom' beer the headcount rose to double that, the sad and depressing figure came to a big fat 3 and a half, me, my mate Rog who I go with when we can both be bothered, Bob 'Come on you quarters' Huggins and Del Hibbert (he's the half cos he's got a student season ticket - but even he doesn't go much) - how sad is that?, these are blokes (and women) who I grew up with, who I travelled the length and breadth of England and Wales with, and blokes who risked life and limb to watch Rovers with back in the 70s, all of them, every single one of them who still class themselves as lifelong Rovers' fans - but who in fact, don't go anymore (sorry Wiltsh, I do not class going to Wemble twice as being a regular). Depressing isn't it?

I have no other comment to make really, no answers, no thoughts or opinions on who we should or who we should not have appointed as manager or director of football or tealady or whatever, no thoughts on previous managers, no comment on formation, or tactics or shirt design or whether they should serve mushy peas with the pasties - I just know that in my near 40 years of watching Rovers I've had some great times and seen some great players (Bruce Bannister still my all time hero) but most of all if it wasn't for Rovers I wouldn't have met my wife and made the great friends that I have now, and for that, if no other reason I am eternally grateful to Rovers.

The night ended with Ben Gunstone's 'I can hear the Tote End boys sing' - I was a Tote End boy, my mates were Tote End boys - there wasn't a dry eye in the pub..

Merry Christmas to you all

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