Sharing memories of introductions to the Gas
Sept 29, 2015 15:37:57 GMT
Foran for England and o2o2bo2ba like this
Post by kingswood Polak on Sept 29, 2015 15:37:57 GMT
This is what the now Mrs wrote when I tested her by taking her to the gas
And Cupid’s arrows are Blue and White …
The first thing I said to my prospective date (upon his listing his lifelong passions) was: ‘Bristol Rovers? Really?’ Now Pink Floyd I could understand. And chicken vindaloo, well, that’s a given. But Bristol Rovers? I know I was being coquettishly cheeky in that moment, but Rovers, REALLY?! That was like watching Celebrity Big Brother with only Z list celebrities in - wasn’t it?
Anyway, my cheeky slur was overlooked and one date with a Gashead guy turned into much more. Spring turned into summer, and summer turned into the new football season. And here I was with my first invite to a Rover’s game. ‘You don’t have to come,’ said my man.
Now you have to understand I’m a modern woman. None of that hanging on a man’s coat-tails and pretending to be interested in what he’s interested in. That especially applies when faced with the prospect of shivering wotsits off on a football terrace. But as it was unusually for late summer a hot day, I agreed. As a one-off, you understand. I already had an excuse prepared for every future Saturday in the season ranging from pulling out hens teeth to cleaning out my rabbits’ cages (I don’t keep either hens or rabbits).
An inanely grinning(now) ex-husband asking me to pull his finger had been my only previous experience of being around lots of gas. And, in my mind (don’t ask me why) I’d associated the Mem. Ground with old men racing whippets. It was most pleasant, therefore, to discover all ages, male and female, there at the ground – not a whippet in sight And as blue and white isn't my colour, I was chuffed the new purple and black Rover’s away shirt suited me perfectly.
Practically every psychology textbook in existence talks about the madness of crowds and cites the football experience. I’d heard it all before blah de blah, long before Dr Freud dangled me on his knee grumbling about Mother. But there’s so much the books miss out about the football experience that just has to be, well, experienced.
By the end of my first game, this previously-neutral-about-footie woman in her forties (I mean thirties, darn typos) was roaring with the best of them, and louder than the boys in the Blackthorn end. My new football song is: ‘I’m a girl and can sing louder than you lot.’ (The copyright belongs to me, 10 pence royalty per each public performance might just earn me a pasty by the end of this season).
At the time of writing, I’ve been to my 8th Rover’s game and I’ve been told by ‘them’s that count’ that I can now officially call myself a Gashead. I genuinely enjoy being at each match, love having a laugh with the people there, the half-time pasties aren’t bad and though the football is secondary to the actual experience, even though I’m a mere woman I can explain the offside rule. I also understand now because of the convivial atmosphere why Gas fans call each other family. One other thing I appreciate is players and staff are approachable and not at all up themselves. Manager John Ward, for instance, I’ve always found to be a perfect gent.
So if in the future someone should say to me: ‘Bristol Rovers? Really?’ I’ll respond: ‘Yes, I’m proud to be Gas, you should give it a try sometime!’
Sophie ‘Gashead’ Merlo or Sophie the Sax FFSC
And Cupid’s arrows are Blue and White …
The first thing I said to my prospective date (upon his listing his lifelong passions) was: ‘Bristol Rovers? Really?’ Now Pink Floyd I could understand. And chicken vindaloo, well, that’s a given. But Bristol Rovers? I know I was being coquettishly cheeky in that moment, but Rovers, REALLY?! That was like watching Celebrity Big Brother with only Z list celebrities in - wasn’t it?
Anyway, my cheeky slur was overlooked and one date with a Gashead guy turned into much more. Spring turned into summer, and summer turned into the new football season. And here I was with my first invite to a Rover’s game. ‘You don’t have to come,’ said my man.
Now you have to understand I’m a modern woman. None of that hanging on a man’s coat-tails and pretending to be interested in what he’s interested in. That especially applies when faced with the prospect of shivering wotsits off on a football terrace. But as it was unusually for late summer a hot day, I agreed. As a one-off, you understand. I already had an excuse prepared for every future Saturday in the season ranging from pulling out hens teeth to cleaning out my rabbits’ cages (I don’t keep either hens or rabbits).
An inanely grinning(now) ex-husband asking me to pull his finger had been my only previous experience of being around lots of gas. And, in my mind (don’t ask me why) I’d associated the Mem. Ground with old men racing whippets. It was most pleasant, therefore, to discover all ages, male and female, there at the ground – not a whippet in sight And as blue and white isn't my colour, I was chuffed the new purple and black Rover’s away shirt suited me perfectly.
Practically every psychology textbook in existence talks about the madness of crowds and cites the football experience. I’d heard it all before blah de blah, long before Dr Freud dangled me on his knee grumbling about Mother. But there’s so much the books miss out about the football experience that just has to be, well, experienced.
By the end of my first game, this previously-neutral-about-footie woman in her forties (I mean thirties, darn typos) was roaring with the best of them, and louder than the boys in the Blackthorn end. My new football song is: ‘I’m a girl and can sing louder than you lot.’ (The copyright belongs to me, 10 pence royalty per each public performance might just earn me a pasty by the end of this season).
At the time of writing, I’ve been to my 8th Rover’s game and I’ve been told by ‘them’s that count’ that I can now officially call myself a Gashead. I genuinely enjoy being at each match, love having a laugh with the people there, the half-time pasties aren’t bad and though the football is secondary to the actual experience, even though I’m a mere woman I can explain the offside rule. I also understand now because of the convivial atmosphere why Gas fans call each other family. One other thing I appreciate is players and staff are approachable and not at all up themselves. Manager John Ward, for instance, I’ve always found to be a perfect gent.
So if in the future someone should say to me: ‘Bristol Rovers? Really?’ I’ll respond: ‘Yes, I’m proud to be Gas, you should give it a try sometime!’
Sophie ‘Gashead’ Merlo or Sophie the Sax FFSC
