EH, I’M AS GIDDY AS A HORSE on race day at the minute. Trotting about, snorting, horse whinny-ing, eating sugar cubes, all that kind of thing. Cup final fever is well and truly kicking in and I’ll be rearing up on my hind legs next, flailing my front hooves about in the air in a wild and unpredictable fashion.

It’s really that good.

Two more full days remain until the Rovers hordes plunge down the motorways, byroads and railroads of the United Kingdom. A mélange of Rovers-related accouterments adorning the roofs, rearview mirrors and windows of a cavalcade of vehicles destined for our biggest Cup Final day since the glorious Summer weekend in Scarborough seven or eight years ago, when Donny scaled to the pinnacle of footballing excellence in vanquishing Airdrie FC in the incomparable, the legendary, The Minster Carpets Cup!

So, let’s put the league woes to one side for a day at least, and take this match for what it is, another enthralling chapter in the history of Doncaster Rovers. How many clubs have had the roller-coaster ride we have over the last few seasons?

The only reason the lows feel so bad is because the highs have been so bloody enthralling, so I’ll be down in Wales, I’ll make sure I have a proper shout-up and get behind the lads, who have been nothing short of awesome in this competition. Lets all pay them back for that 2nd leg performance against Crewe, and lets generate some real theatre so the people back in Donny watching on Sky can see exactly what they are missing out on.

And, while you are there, spare a thought for those Rovers players past, dancing with innocent glee in front of no more than 600 Rovers fan in the July Scarborough sunshine in 1999. We may have come a long way since that time, but as long as you allow yourself to enjoy ‘em, the golden memories will always be golden.

That it is pre-ordained in the historical Football League rulebook we are to lose one nil and suffer at least one severe injustice when we are refereed by Graham Salisbury cannot now be in doubt.

His meddling at Millmoor last season effectively cost Rovers a playoff place and ensured those six fingered oddities survived one more season in L1. This season, the Spectre at the Feast re-emerged at Tranmere as we had aimed to snatch a place in the top six. Yet - joy unabound - here he was again on Saturday, the Reaper of lost souls, the scourge of Carpethia, the pasty-faced git of Lancashire. Evidently our upturn in fortunes would have to wait another week.

As it happened, improvements were in the somewhere, in spite of us competing against a much higher calibre of side than we had most recently been scrabbling about against. The usual recent foibles came to the fore against Bristol City. We got beaten - check. We didn’t score a goal - check. Really though, that was as bad as it got - admittedly getting beaten and not scoring is pretty bad (in football as in life) but bear with me here.

In flashes, in brief bursts, the previous confident and attacking football was in back in evidence at the Keepmoat. I’m talking a slick passing, quick in the tackle central midfield unit bossing the majority of proceedings. Bar me attaching a bit of paper saying “Notice to Improve” on Paul Green in time for Cardiff (a goal ala Stoke 2003 will do), the midfield can stand up and take a bow. Hollywood Brian Stock, for all his recent and deserved criticism, came out against Bristol and found the passing range in evidence from his initial loan spell with Rovers. He even found the wherewithall to chuck in possibly the most ferocious tackle of his career midway through the second half to win back possession, which was greatly appreciated by the crowd.

Sean Thornton covered yards and yards patrolling midfield and getting up into the final third. Has Sean O’Driscoll decided that Middlesbrough Mark Wilson may not be the answer alongside Stock for a forward thinking midfield?

O’Connor and Sean McDaid got through a tremendous amount of work up and down the flanks, attacking like Cafu and defending like, um … some random uber-efficient German full-back I suppose. Andreas Brehme?

Danny Cadamarteri, released from playing a central striker role as he did against Cheltenham, wreaked havoc on the Bristol City left sided defensive line, particularly in the second half as some of his interplay with Cafu O’Connor left many in the crowd roaring their (ocassionally profane) approval.

In fact, had the looming ogre in black not blown for an offside when TV evidence blatantly proved otherwise, Cadamaretri’s efforts would have seen Rovers get the first in the sack and I’d have (probably) been writing about an entirely different result with a fair dollop of wholly disproportionate zeal.

As it was, we still missed the attacking vigour of Heffs, Price and McCammon, as you’d expect. And no matter how well we played, if we can’t score, we are always going to be liable for a sucker punch goal, which Bristol duly delivered with about a minute left on the clock. Bollocks.

Still, there was enough in the game for Rovers to hint darkly at menace aforethought to come at the Millenium Stadium - and, with the first two of the trio mentioned above resuming full training today, I smugly proclaim that I will be watching eleven men good and true, bedecked in red and white mugging for the Sky cameras with ill concealed glee (and a rather large trophy) come 3pm on Sunday.

NEXT WEEK WILL SEE SOME CHANGES on this, your favourite conceited Doncaster Rovers blog. A review of proceedings against those West country bumpkins from Bristol for one. A newer, sharper site design with a far more joyous and positive banner photograph than the present tenant of the space at the top of this page for another.

Encompassing the positive theme a step further, for one week only in the run up to Cardiff, Donblog will become a Rovers feel-good spin machine, talking up player abilities to an improbable degree, pointing to recent past glories as some kind of scientifically inaccurate barometer to what Rovers will achieve in the future. This will be the Peter Mandelson of web logs, if you will.

I’ll probably recant one of the thorough shellackings we dished out to Bristol Rovers in our 2004 championship season as a precursor to our season Main Event in Wales a week Sunday too. It will be a momentous day for the club and the supporters, and it’s there to be enjoyed regardless of comparitive League disappointments. Let’s make sure we do just that eh?

Tune in for more on Monday.

THERES A CERTAIN catharthic feeling to suckling at the teat of mid-table mediocrity.

Expunging the worries and frets from whether our beloved Rovers would make the play-offs has allowed me to watch recent matches with, not a state of disinterest, but a detached casualness. While I wouldn’t want to be permanantly in such limbo (ask a Rochdale fan), it has been interesting to watch fellow supporters around me fretting and worrying over our own and our rivals results while I have been of the opinion that nothing we do in the league this season really matters any more.

In my mind I erected the green screens around the twitching corpus delicti of our promotion push some time ago (the defeat at Bournemouth, I believe). While I was annoyed briefly by the defeat against Cheltenham, by the blunted performance at Chesterfield’s grim shanty stadium, they were really minor piffles, forgotten about within 24 hours. Greater ire was reserved for the attitude of our manager in defeat last Saturday - it’s good to see in that regard, Sean O’Driscoll has come out to clarify some of the points he raised regarding Rovers fans and how he chose to project those points.

To the Bristol City game, who are looking to volley the Scunts from the top of the League One table. Recent form, and our lack of striking options, suggest we’ll be fortunate to come away with a draw. Whatever, I’m just looking for an improved showing from players, management, and supporters alike on Saturday.

HOW VERY APT that the four day Cheltenham Festival race meeting should draw to a close the day before the same towns incumbent football club, Cheltenham Town, visited upon the Keepmoat Stadium. Fans were treat to what amounted to little more than a horses arse of a display from the home team, and left to ruminate on similar visions that befall Cheltenham racecourse staff after those horse arses have disappeared over the horizon. That being, the unpleasant sight and smell of steaming curls of horse cack.

There is nothing about Saturday that told us much that I haven’t already said in the past weeks.

That a percentage of the players pulling on those red and white hoops are patently tossing off the rest of the league season.

That is my opinion, and I’ve seen nothing to disprove the theory over recent matches. I happen to think we will comfortably dispose of Bristol Rovers in the FLT final, and, after April 1, I’ll be on here writing about why we aren’t carrying that form into league matches.

That referees are a medley of self important, self serving twats.

The lower leagues once again plumbed the depths as Edward “Hitler” Ilderton commenced his own peculiar brand of fuckwittery by failing to send off Cheltenham defender Gavin Caines as he hauled back Jon Forte to prevent a clear goalscoring opportunity . With breathtaking cheek he then proceeded to book James Coppinger after the same defender took Copps out in the penalty area with the ball gone. Unsubstantiated rumours persist that Idlerton was seen, hands furiously forraging inside his shorts, each time the crowd roared obsceneties at him. Witless tosser indeed.

That Sean O’Driscoll’s substitutions tend to be crap and/or pointlessly late. That’s a given.

Sean is very clear in his programme notes prior to matches that players need to take responsibilities on and off the football field, in the decisions they make and their actions. Unfortunately, his interview on Saturday entered very murky waters, after engineering some of the blame for the defeat onto the home crowd.

Without question the atmosphere at the stadium was poor. There are a number of reasons for this related to the stadium and it’s management team themselves that contribute, but the overriding factor is the recent abject form from the team, and an unwillingness to change what is obviously a struggling side.

Sean has to accept that people are digging deep into their pockets each week and are entitled to their say. It was the same for Penney, it was the same for Wignall, and Snodin before him. The harsh reality is at 98% of English professional football clubs the atmosphere is dictated by what is being served up on the pitch - it isn’t just “what it’s like up here,” as Sean unwisely put it.

The responsibility for motivating this collection of footballers lies squarely on the managers shoulders. Yet where is the admission that he is taking his share of reponsibility? Does Sean shoulder responsibility for deploying Harry Worley at the right hand side of a three man defence, and then later at right back where he looked like a player plucked straight from the Free Press Sunday morning fuckabout League? Does Sean shoulder responsibility for persisting with a woefully out of form Graeme Lee, or for the centre halves tossing useless balls forward to a strike force all comprehensively under 6 foot tall? How about for signing players on guaranteed appearance loan contacts, for reacting to going 2 goals down, at home, to one of the worst sides in this division, by waiting (again) until the last few minutes before making substitutions?

Or would none of this have happened if the fans had been more supportive from the off?

To Sean I would say it’s a strength, not a weakness, to admit when you make a mistake. If you expect supporters to take criticism on the chin and recognise when they are wrong, so too must you do the same. If you cannot do that, and the relationship with the supporters deteriorates, there is only likely to be one outcome.

LOAD OF RUBBISH AREN’T THEY? I mean, telly is crap, car needs washing, sundry bollocks DIY jobs need amatuerishly tending to.

So what better way to gleefully jettison your duties on any given Sunday than by following the nefarious misadventures of South Yorkshires foremost footballing superpower, Doncaster Rovers in a Super Sunday, top-of-League-One, Clash of the Titans at the palacial surroundings of Boundary Park, Oldham?

As it turned out, quite a lot actually. Especially when said superpowers suffer a humiliating exposure of their difficencies akin to a backing tape becoming jammed at a Milli Vanilli concert aimed at raising funds towards scapegoating inauthentic musicians.

That Rovers offered as much attacking alacrity as a Frenchman in WWII was no surprise in itself, us being trimmed as we are of the mercurial Paul Heffernan has obliterated any hopes we might have once entertained of promotion for another season.

To see the assemblage of Rovers defenders abstain from their defensive duties with such reckless abandon did, admittedly, have me swearing obscenely and at not inconsiderable volume, despite my previous insistance that I was in cruise control until the FLT final in Cardiff. It is quite bad enough to muse that any opposition side possesing the wherewithall to score one goal against us in our current state is unlikely to lose the match. For our invertibrate attacking assemblage to then be juxtaposed by a similarly feckless collection of individuals masquerading as defenders doesn’t say much for the rest of our season to come, does it? And accepting four goal kickings with any kind of good grace is not a forte of mine.

Anyway, here’s the goals from that pathetic debacle, filmed in the exciting new “inverted-widescreen” format - for your viewing pleasure. To view in standard widescreen, please turn your monitor sideways. I’m off to put that shelf up and mow the lawn.

ARE WE suddenly promotion material again?

Following the unexpected win at Forest in midweek, hopes seem high that we can have a decent crack at the play-offs. I’ll readily admit that I was more surprised to see us win the game than King Harold was in 1066 when he turned round and copped a pointy arrow in the eye. I’m not sure which event would have had the longer odds - had bookies existed in Medieval times of course.

To me it simpy reiterated that the teams in this division are painfully average. Everyone can beat everyone else apparently, except Scunthorpe who can now beat everyone not because they have a great side, but because they have Billy “fucking” Sharp (as I call him every Saturday after I’ve looked at the scores on Teletext). We had Paul Heffernan of course, and were making a decent fist of chasing these other arsehole outfits down in League One with Heffs smacking goals in for fun, but now he’s crocked long term. And for me that still means our promotion hopes are shafted - comprehensive beat-downs of former Kings of Europe notwithstanding.

In the news, Mark McCammon looks set to be missing for the rest of the season, but Sean O’Driscoll remains confident that the backup forwards can still plough us a furrow to glory. Ahead of the Oldham game, Rovers also have injury doubts over Graeme Lee, Adam Lockwood and James Coppinger, meaning Harry Worley is likely to continue in the heart of defence after overcoming a minor knock on Tuesday night.

Finally for today, and for those who take a morbid fascination in these kind of things, the goals from the sorrowful display at Bournemouth are below. Neil Sullivan, albiet briefly, became less a saint, more a mere mortal with the concession of the second goal, though his three clean sheets in four games since his return to Rovers colours render dwelling moodishly on this minor aberration to be churlish in the extreme - and may well interfere with random excessive praise I may wish to apportion to Donblog’s patron saint further down the line. That said you, like I, may wish to merely afford an indulgent chuckle when watching the second goal back and accept that from time to time it’s simply the sort of thing that Scottish goalkeepers do.

AN ORACLE CAN BE A WARNING, a counsel, a premonition or communication with the Gods. The most famous oracles are those of Apollo in Delphi and of Zeus at Dodona, and latterly, Steve at Donblog.

Two score and three days ago, Donblog channeled the wishes of the Gods to declare somewhat forcibly that Neil Sullivan should be signed back up, and returned to his rightful place as Rovers resident guardian of the goalposts. As we bore testament to, It was written, and then It was done.

In the aftermath of the pathetic attacking somnolence displayed against Yeovil at the Keepmoat Stadium, the clouds parted once again and the Gods were moved to decree that we should recall Bruce Dyer fucking sharpish from his loan spell at Bradford City. Donblog repeated their utterances, and thus it came to pass that Sean O’Driscoll, in a moment of Road to Damascus-like clarity, saw the light and sent the taxi over to West Yorkshire.

The more cynical amongst this sites readership might point out that I was, at this time yesterday, ranting on about Bruce Dyer’s loan being extended at Bradford leaving us short, when in fact he had already arrived back in Doncaster - didn’t see that one coming did I?

The Gods didnt say anything about us signing a Harry Worley on loan either. I’ve obviously made them angry - probably all that swearing and stuff.

REGRETTABLY, MY SPIDEY SENSE for Saturday was right to be tingling, as Bournemouth brushed aside a pathetically impotent Rovers team with the type of consumate ease more readily associated with entering a pensioners home and telling her to get a brew on while you “check the gas meter”.

In a not too unpredictable turn of events (see Friday nights’ column for more of that type of doom mongering), defeat was summarily handed to the Rovers by Sean O’Driscoll’s relegation haunted ex-charges, who at the same time lifted themselves outside of the relegation zone, fragranced as it is by the fetid smell of the remnants Rotherham’s rotting League One carcass.

Another listless attacking display coupled with the return to form of our two goals per game concession ratio was more than enough to do for us at Dean Court, and knacker our play-off ambitions for another season. Lets be right about things, without Paul Heffernan we aren’t going to score the goals we need - latest reports pen Heffs in for a six-week absence - and we seem unable to get a handle on restoring the mantle of defensive excellence of months gone by.

Lord Sean Of Driscoll seems quite happy, thank you very much, with the forwards that we have, to the point of arrogantly exacerabing the point with the extension of Bruce Dyer’s loan spell at Bradford City by another month. After all, why would we need an experienced forward with as good as a goal per three games career scoring ratio in the team when we have Lewis Guy to run about like a headless chicken, Jon Forte to jink unconvincingly on the wing, and Mark McCammon to chip in with the odd goal in twenty?

And so, as we are well and truly shafted from a promotion point of view, we might as well strap ourselves in for many more league performances of a similar uninspiring ilk, with vaste swathes of aimless midfield play puncuated by the odd tame shot trundling apologetically wide. The question begs then, how are the descerning Rovers supporting multitudes going to pass the time, in the face of such barren recreational entertainment, until 20,000 of us steam in mob-handed to Cardiff city centre for a few pints and a good old fashioned shout up?

For now I will just brood sullenly on a vague assertion that certain un-named members of the squad are fannying about in a half-arsed fashion counting the days until April 1, cowering wretchedly at the prospect of getting injured before the showpiece occassion at the Millennium. And if the players can’t be arsed to get themselves wound up over playing League matches, I fail to see why idiot punters like me who stump up the beans and travel the length and breadth of the country to support them should concern themselves with such mundane trivialities either.

Bollocks to it all in fact. Rovers have declared themselves by deed rather than voice that they are done with the play-offs, and I’m moving into cruise control until Cardiff.

TOMORROW sees the return of Sean O’Driscoll to the South coast and his previous club of some 20-odd years in Bournemouth. As the original Mack himself lyrically prophecised:

Well I tried to tell you so (yes, I did)
But I guess you didn’t know, as I said the story goes
Baby, now I got the flow
‘Cos I knew it from the start
Baby, when you broke my heart
That I had to come again, and show you that I’m real

Ahem. Of course, no-one lied to Sean, no-one turned on Sean, and no-one broke his heart, like they did Mark Morrison. Sean has probably never been in prison either. So a polite burst of mutual appreciation between our Manager and Bournemouths crowd is about the most we can expect to see. Hardly a bristling precursor to a blood and knackers effort to grab the three points is it?

And that’s why I’ve got a bad feeling about tomorrow. Former Bournemouth players, former, well loved Bournemouth management team, playing back at Bournemouth, the same Bournemouth who are in some serious relegation dog shite. It just doesn’t strike me that we will be straining at the leash come 3pm.

Team-wise, Jason Price is suspended for one match, so hopefully Mark McCammon will make a return to the starting eleven. Disappointingly, Copps is still struggling so may be a doubt. On a more positive note, Brian Stock is also apparently in danger of missing out on a return to his own club due to injury - fucking good, based on his last display. With trips to Forest and Bristol City looming large on the horizon, we could really do with the three points from this one.

So why does it feel like we aren’t gonna get ‘em..?