ALL A BIT QUIET REALLY, INNIT? Donblog continues to doze idly in the relative sunshine of April with occassional streams of conciousness being uploaded. The Rovers forums are showing levels of activity more readily associated with a sack of dead kittens, happened upon along the banks of the River Don by a horror-stricken child . Even the ever diligent official Rovers website, in the absence of anything interesting going on, is being forced into publishing a series of irrelevant competitions and sales propaganda … oh, wait.

Speaking of which, kudos to whoever decided to run with the Keep Your Eye On The Ball campaign story on our official tome to all things Rovers, on the same day that the death of former England footballer Alan Ball was announced. I imagine his son Jimmy Ball shares those exact same sentiments.

I wasn’t too sure on the wisdom of the BBC website report on his death stating that he died “tackling” a bonfire, either. But maybe it was just my warped mind that mused upon Alan spotting the raging inferno trying to make a break towards the garden fence, and lunging into the flames with a thunder-hooven two footed challenge.

Yeah, probably just me.

WITH ALL THE LISTLESS LETHARGY of a SMC website editor, Donblog stirs back into life once more, emerging from an ill-fashioned quilt of printed emails sent with much fury by “Disgusted of Greasebrough”, “Dismayed of Dalton”, “Repulsive of Rotherham” and their ilk over the course of the last couple of weeks, to gaze out upon the World of South Yorkshires football titans, Doncaster Rovers.

Among the string of mis-spelled, poorly punctuated complaints, and the forecasts of doom for Rovers’ future fortunes (PARTICULARLY THE GUY WITH THE PRESUMABLY BROKEN CAPS-LOCK KEY) came a thinly veiled and gleamingly spell-checked threat of legal action being taken due to apparently libellous comments being made about Rotherham United FC in the article below this one. Donblog will not be silenced!

Having said that, it has come to my attention that someone (or something) has been rustling through my bins of an evening since the article went to press. Keep an eye out for those Donblog caught in Miller-baiting sting headlines over the next few weeks. Barry Chuckle has apparently made it his mission to take me down.

Anyhow, back to the regular business of distributing equal portions of ebullient praise and shameless criticism of that team we call the Rovers. My mercifully brief dalliances with our backwards cousins from over the M18 have nevertheless left me feeling as dirty as a Frenchman, and shall be accordingly expunged from the system, much like the insubordinate turd shall eventually fall to the power of the low-level flush.

More on Thursday.

ANOTHER LEAGUE SATURDAY out of the way, another underwhelming Rovers performance notched onto the bedpost of mid tempo mediocrity as we snatch a one all draw at Leyton Orient, who are in turn another side feeling the bony hand of the grim spectre of relegation on their shoulder, yet are sufficiently talented that we are unable to best them - a bit like Cheltenham a couple of weeks ago. Predictable fayre all round then, and hardly worthy of column inches as I sit here at my laptop.

So instead, I’d like to take a few minutes to discuss the rights, and the wrongs, of professional football.

WHAT’S WRONG in English professional football, is for Rotherham United to rack up hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of debts, following relegation from the Championship, in an attempt to plot an immediate return from League One, when they knew they had no means by which to settle it.

WHAT’S WRONG in English professional football, is for the same club to incessently delay a Creditors Voluntary Agreement against the debts that they owed, whilst their tawdry tinpot fuckabout football team tried to establish whether they would avoid relegation accounting for the looming 10 point deduction.

WHAT’S WRONG in English professional football is for Rotherham to hold over their 10 point deduction until the following season after surviving relegation on the final day of the season, at the expense of Hartlepool, despite the breach of rules coming to a head the season prior.

WHAT’S WRONG in English professional football is for Rotherham to pay back one penny of each pound of debt they had acrrued to settle their creditors then, a few months later, sell two players for close to a million pounds in revenue.

However, WHAT’S RIGHT in English professional football, is for The Millers to at long last, receive their just desserts of relegation from League One, with the fatal blow inflicted by Doncaster Rovers allowing Leyton Orient to clinch an unretrievable extra point at Brisbane Road.

And WHAT’S RIGHT in English professional football, is for Rotherham to be left stranded on the tugboat to basement division football while, on the same day, the team they unfairly condemned to relegation last season, Hartlepool United swim back, to the sanctury, of the League One.

In summary, welcome back to Hartlepool, and a cheery “fuck off and good riddance” to those iron smelting web-toed oddities from the arse-crack of Sheffield.

HAVING BEEN LARGELY BANNED FROM EASTER, after eating my 3 year-old Godsons’ Cadburys Flake Easter Egg a week or so ago, and having a sufficiently empty bank account to not even get to the stage of contemplating a weekend in Brighton to follow the Rovers, I’m instead moved to write about the real meaning of Easter.

It’s not all overpriced chocolate, big Sunday dinners and improbable resurrections you know. Actually, it does have quite a lot to do with improbable resurrections. See whether you can place the scene of this famous Bible excerpt.

“In the end of the sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week, came 10,000 supporters to see the sepulchre.

And, behold, there was a great roar: for Baby Bayo Akinfenwa of Doncaster descended from the edge of the penalty area, and came and pulled back the foot from the football, and scored with it.

His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment red and white as candy:

And for fear of him the Cambridge defender did shake, and became as a dead man.

And the Rovers answered and said unto the supporters, Fear not ye: for I know that ye seek success and glory, which was crucified by Richardson.

It is here: for we are risen, as we said. Come, see the place where the Rovers play.

And go quickly, and tell Football Focus that Rovers are risen from the dead; and, behold, they goeth before you into Division Two; there shall ye see them (but only with a season ticket): lo, I have told you.”

Yup, almost three years ago to the day, Rovers were promoted to what has now become League One, the third tier of English football. The sun was always shining. I was whistling a lot, probably. It was even socially acceptable to see a Rovers starting eleven with the names ‘Chris Beech’ and ‘Jamie Price’ pencilled in back then.

I’ve reproduced below, a match report (of sorts) that I wrote shortly after the events of the day of Easter Monday 2004 and the subsequent recovery from alcohol poisoning sustained during the night of that same Easter Monday. It’s one of the favourite things I ever did write - hope it brings back some memories.

Having emerged from the poor mans cricket pavilion that constitues Bristol Rovers football ground some 48 hours earlier with a 2-1 win and a red card for Bayo “I’m a bad invincible Kevin-Austin-chinning mutha fucka!” Akinfenwa, for some wholly inexplicable reason a capacity crowd of close to 10,000 shoe-horned themselves into Belle Vue for the visit of Cambridge. Must be the effulgent desire to see The U’s newly appointed football advisor and all round shifty looking bloke most likely to offer ice-creams to unwitting children, one Claude Le Roy.

Or possibly they came to see a little bit of history be made in South Yorkshire, the team with the most wins, the most goals, become the first team to win promotion, on the back of months of being tipped for nothing by nobody. But probably the first thing.

Either way, the gates were locked by 2:30, leaving an estimated 2,000 fans outside of the ground incandescent with rage at not being able to get near enough to Mr “To know me is to love me” Le Roy. A poorly organised 1970’s style “taking” of the away end by the locked out and desperate Rovers fans in an attempt to get inside the ground ended dismally and quickly as the away turnstiles were subjugated also, the waste of kilojoule energy that was several thousand jacket zips being pulled up over red and white hooped shirts could have powered a small Lithuanian village for many a week.

So while they were left to drift mournfully away from the ground, or sit in the carpark with their ears turned painfully out towards the stand, or in one case, scale some dangerous old scaffolding carried by the old motto “seeing a third of the pitch is better than seeing chuff all, regardless of potential death or injury”, the remaining throng with the insight to turn up by 2 o’clock were treated to the now regular aural assault of spectacularly irrelevant musical masterpieces. ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, anyone?

Didn’t think so.

Rovers showed one change from the side that bestrode Milk Maid and Farmer Giles Rovers like a colossus of Nationwide League football on Saturday, with Mark Albrighton missing out through injury. Jamie Price pushed aside his foppish Hugh Grant-style locks for long enough to realise that he had been pencilled in at left back, as Steve Foster moved back into the centre of defence with Dave “Look at my range! Awesome, Dangerous, Lacksidasical …” Morley, meaning McIndoe was the only recognised left footer in the starting eleven.

With 15 minutes gone, you could make that no left footers in the team. McIndoe was withdrawn from procedings after a poke in the eye from an arial challenge left him with around 50% vision. Paul Green took his place, dropping the bag of sweets offered by Le Roy, and Rovers hopes of a promotion party took the sort of downturn normally associated with the ugly bloke getting horrendously pissed and throwing up all over the brand new shag.

Still, Rovers made the best of a bad fist, and roared on by the biggest league gate since who knows when, Baby Bayo Akinfenwa in particular began his own unique method of bulldozing defenders out of the way en route to goal. After cutting inside from the left, cutting inside a little more, and then finally cutting inside, Bayo unleashed a shot which the Cambridge keeper did well to get down to and turn away.

If that was to be the warning shot across the U’s bows, it was not heeded, as Rovers continued to force the issue in the first half. With Andy Warrington making some tremendous headway into the Take-A-Break Easter special wordsearch, the ball continued to make it’s living inside the Cambridge half for the remainder of the first 45. Paul Green headed a presentable opportunity just over the top, and a 20 yard Dave Morley free kick fizzed underneath the assembled wall to be last-ditch saved by the goalkeeper.

Cambridge arrived into the half time interval still on level terms, a theme oft-seen at Belle Vue in recent home games. Results elsewhere at the time meant that Rovers would not be promoted at Full Time, and so started the second half full of intent. From a John Doolan free kick, Bayo stabbed the ball towards the goal only for it to be blocked by Cambridges Terry Angus. Ricky Ravenhill arc’d a superb shot in which rattled against the crossbar seconds later.

The crowd raised a throaty roar in encouragement of their warriors on the pitch as shirt collars were loosened in the Cambridge dug-out. The reward was not long in coming.

In a carbon copy from the Bury game, Gregg Blundell was send sprinting away with the football down the right hand side in front of the Pop. A low early cross was met by a combination of the Cambridge keeper, defender Tann, and Baby Bayo. The three colided and the ball spilled into the net. Bayo’s goal. Bayo’s dance. Tann laid prostrate on the pitch.

The Rovers fans offered “You’re not singing anymore” to the decent Cambridge following, but they weren’t singing anyway. With Tann’s body parts being divvied up for medical science as he was fetched from the pitch, Cambridge were forced to re-organise. They need’nt have bothered. Five minutes later they were two nil down and banged out.

In a glorious set of interchanges, representative of the great season we have been enjoying, Dave Mulligan and JJ Melligan idly swapped passes in the sunshine by the Cambridge corner flag. With the opposition unable to get a touch on the ball, Mulligan received it back from JJ for the 20th time, quickly swapped passes with Blundell and headed for the byline with intent and the football. His pull back was gloriously turned into the net via the diving head (and body, I suppose) of Paul Green.

The rest of the game was one noisy, prolonged celebration, as fans in all four stands shouted and sang. The final whistle blew, not bringing the curtain down on the season, as it did for our last promotion in May 2003, but writing another chapter into what is genuinely becoming one of the most enthralling stories in English football history. And there is plenty more to come before this season is out.

Bayo did his dance, John Ryan did Bayo’s dance (”it’s sullied forever!” Bayo moaned), the promotion flags were carried by the players, and the champagne sprayed. A little over one year ago Rovers fans watched from the terraces as Yeovil celebrated their Conference championship, on our home patch. It was not right, not just, for a place with the history that Belle Vue has, to end it’s glory scenes on a day like that, with visitors swaggering to a 4-0 win and enjoying the spoils.

This time the glory was ours. Bigger, better, more meaningful. And we have not seen the last of it, if we are to move to a new Stadium soon, then mark the date, Saturday, May 8 2004, for a real championship party of which the grand old lady will have never seen the likes.

SOMETIMES, you just have to stop talking rubbish for a moment. I have, except to say, I bring you “The JPT final, by dazza“. Very well done, Sir.

FIRST AND FOREMOST.

How on Earth can anyone NOT be a Doncaster Rovers fan?

Sunday opitomised everything good about supporting this football club of ours. I talked a couple of months ago on here, about how there is the easy way to do things, the hard way to do things, and the Doncaster Rovers way to do things. And a cup final in Cardiff before a crowd of 60,000 people and a watching Sky TV audience was not about to change the way we go about our business.

Taking the lead after less than one minute, it was just disbelieving glee around us. Has that really happened? To be 2-0 up a few minutes later via the golden boot of Heffs was simply delirium unabound all around me. But how on Earth do you play the game after that preparation-obliterating burst of early goals?

Maybe you can continue attacking - strive for the third goal, put the game beyond doubt and enjoy the rest of the occassion in the sunshine. Alternatively, you can kill the game off by choking the oppositions attacking endeavours, retaining possession, that kind of thing.

The good ship Rovers plotted an entirely different course of action of course, never ones for navigating the traditional routes, the team proceeded to defend deeper than the Mariana Trench in an attempt to subjugate Bristol Rovers’ attempts to find a way back into the match via an array of last ditch tackles, headers and sundry blocking.

That’s not to say we didn’t have further chances to extend the lead. Every time we attacked we looked like we could score, whereas every time Bristol attacked, it floundered upon the rock that was the awesome Rovers rearguard. At least, that was the story for the first half. In the second half it took us all of about 15 minutes to chase away the two goal lead down the urinals, in a stream of steaming piss, worn-out urinal cakes and tab ends.

Doncaster fans were once again introduced to our old friend, “two apiece and extra-time”. Not before Heffs had streaked clean through on goal in the last minute of normal time - eliciting high-pitched cries of “please, PLEASE!” from the bloke stood next to me who was built in such a way that his girlish tones sounded as absurd as those West Country Bristolian accents. His manly aura was thusly restored as Heffernan lanced the ball wide of goal, with a simple, gruff illicitation of the words “orr fuck-bollocks” capturing the essence of the resulting mood in the North and East Stands of our opulent Welsh surroundings.

Still, all was well that ended well, and giddy memories of Stoke 2003 were evoked again as Graeme Lee steamed in with around 10 minutes of extra time remaining to authoritavely plant the ball into the back of the net. Get some of that down ya, thank you very much, that’s one Johnstones Paint Trophy sorted and heading up the motorway back to Doncaster … it looks a bit like the UEFA Cup actually.

So, to the heroes of the hour. Paul Heffernan is rapidly approaching legend status in Doncaster, and my first born - if it’s a boy - shall thusly be named “Heff”. Should I sire a girl, obviously I cannot adorn her with such an inappropriate appellation. It will have to be “Heffley”. Anyhow, ‘The Heffernator’ showed us all what we’ve been missing over the last few weeks with an awesome all round display over 120 minutes capped off by the kind of authoritative finish that has the likes of Michael Owen resorting to a series of angry wanks in the knowledge they can’t do that any more.

Sean Thornton was catapulted into the fray around the hour mark in replacement of the utterly destroyed Jason Price, with Copps pushed further up the pitch, and provided the kind of strength, balance and bite in midfield that we had been missing all of the first half. ‘Tarn Tarnton’ now deserves a long run in the side for the remainder of this season, his performances over 2007 have shown a new level of hunger and drive that most had previously decided just wasn’t there at all.

Finally to Jimmy O’Connor. A fantastic display up against one of the trickiest wingers Rovers have come up against in recent times, in Lewis Haldayne. Bristol’s attacking 442 approach meant the fullbacks were getting up and down the pitch with abandon, meaning he always had to be on his toes. Anyone who still thinks Cafu O’Connor is unable to defend in a manner befitting of a fullback, watch the tape through of Sundays game. I don’t need to justify him any further.

The lesson to be learned for Bristol - don’t fuck with the Irish Mafia.**

** Evidently James O’Connor is not actually Irish. He does however have his surname prefixed with the customary “O” and, for the purposes of this blog, can be considered as Irish as most Americans become on Saint Patricks Day, or indeed anyone who has an inate dislike for Snakes.