Frank. This, err, stuff just got real.

27 May

“Frank. This sh*t just got real…..” Not my words Carol, the words of Nicholas Angel (Simon Pegg) in cinema’s Hot Fuzz. Way back. Yet never more appropriate than this morning. Thursday. Little over 48 hours to go until Brentford and Swansea City slug it out for the right to play in next season’s Premier League. The quite wonderful news from yesterday being that each side will now have an additional 1000 supporters present at Wembley on Saturday. Whilst the game has still not been deemed a ‘test event’ in line with the FA Cup final, instead we are now human guinea pigs (metaphorically speaking) , assisting the NHS in what has been described as “a status service trial relating to the free NHS App.” Pass the placebo and sign me up. This is fantastic news and means Brentford, like Swansea, will now have 5,000 fans present. 5,000 loud, roaring , vocal fans. And is there an omen from last night’s Europa League final between Manchester United and eventual winners Villareal? 

Frank, this shit just got real.

Yet we can only start with tickets. Whilst there will still be those who miss out  – you could have made this one a full house in a heartbeat – the joy from those now able to attend thanks to the combination of helping the health service and meeting the new TAPS threshold (including our Harry) has been unconfined. The full story is on Brentford official with the additional ray of hope for those currently unable to attend that, ”If we still have any tickets remaining at the end of Thursday, we will broaden the TAPs group further, but from 5pm tomorrow (now today NB) availability will not be guaranteed, with tickets sold on a first come, first served basis.

It is still an awful situation that so many supporters of both team will miss out. There are so many sad tales out there and it almost feels gloating to even talk of being able to attend. As the club have also noted,” We share your anger and frustration and will do everything we can to ensure as many Bees fans as possible get to Wembley on Saturday to support the team.”  

I don’t envy the staff in the ticket office. Supplying insatiable demand is tough enough at the best of times. Let alone in circumstances such as this one. The ultimate game. An anything but infinite supply to somehow distribute. The responsibility on those able to go to really raise the roof and sing their hearts out like never before, even bigger than ever. Those watching back home and in the pubs screaming at the TV. A chance to celebrate like we’d won the FA Cup at Leyont Orient. A chance to relive England’s World Cup penalty shoot out triumph. Fair to say that the atmosphere in The Griffin was somewhat excited that night. You just KNOW this one is going to go to the wire.  

Cripes, sitting through the penalties last night was tense enough and I don’t even support Manchester United. A midweek affiliation with them aside, after living in the city for 18 months (any game is a game if you can go and the Bees aren’t playing), it was as neutral an affair as they come. Yet still. Watching twenty mostly perfect spot kicks was about as excruciating as it got. Five out of five at the start and then five initial rounds of buttock clenching ‘sudden death.’ The nerve shown by player after player incredible. The shootout score locked at 10 -10. Brackets? You’d probably need an entire paragraph.

And then it got to the end of the line. There was nobody left to have a go. Almost nobody. Oh, David de Gea. The heart went out to him as things reached the point where everybody barring the goalkeepers had scored. Up stepped Geronimo Rulli for the Spaniards. Boom. 21 out of 21. Sadly, his opposite number wasn’t able to emulate him. Heartbreak. Tears. Ecstasy. The obvious extreme of emotions depending on which colour gloves you were wearing . 

Yet all I could think of was us in this situation, ”And up steps David Raya….” If ever there was an additional motivation required to do it in normal time then here it was. Genuinely, I don’t think my heart could take sudden death. The pressure on Saturday will be big enough without going through this additional level of torture to try and claim this most sought after of prizes.

Things are now feeling very real. The first batch of tickets have arrived. Across Europe, silverware is being lifted. Some fans still have that additional chance, no matter how slim, of being able to get in to the game. Just keep your eyes on the website. Keep crossing your fingers. Keep on believing.

One more game…..

Nick Bruzon

2 Responses to “Frank. This, err, stuff just got real.”

  1. David Carney May 27, 2021 at 8:26 am #

    The few Brentford supporters lucky enough to get tickets to Wembley reminded me of the henry V St Crispin Day speech before the Battle of Agincourt. With apologies to William Shakespear i have amended the speech to St bethan’s Day delivered by Thomas Frank. I hope it copies to your post.
    VARNEY. O that we now had here
    But one ten thousand of those men in England
    That do no work to-day!

    FRANK. What’s he that wishes so?
    My cousin, Varney? No, my fair cousin;
    If we are mark’d to lose, we are enough
    To do our Brentford loss; and if to win,
    The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
    God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
    By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
    Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
    It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
    Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
    But if it be a sin to covet the EPL,
    I am the most offending soul alive.
    No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
    God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
    As one man more methinks would share from me
    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
    Rather proclaim it, Varney, through my host,
    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
    Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
    And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
    We would not lose in that man’s company
    That fears his fellowship to lose with us.
    This day is call’d the feast of Benham.
    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
    Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
    And rouse him at the name of Benham.
    He that shall live this day, and see old age,
    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
    And say “To-morrow is Saint Benham.”
    Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
    And say “These wounds I had on Benham’s day.”
    Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
    But he’ll remember, with advantages,
    What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
    Familiar in his mouth as household words—
    Frank the Coach, Tovey and Jansson,
    Canos and Mbuemo, Norgaard and jensen—
    Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.
    This story shall the good man teach his son;
    And benham, Benham shall ne’er go by,
    From this day to the ending of the world,
    But we in it shall be rememberèd—
    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
    For he to-day that sheds his sweat with me
    Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
    This day shall gentle his condition;
    And gentlemen in England now a-bed
    Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That fought with us upon Saint Benham’s day.

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