OK, this is how I see it panning out.
On the glorious, sunny lowlands of Brentford; blessed, bucolic, emerald pastured heaven on earth that it is; spring has arrived early and with it a tsunami of goodwill flows over the gladiators of last Tuesday night and the steadfast centurion who leads them forward to victories unimagined.
At home to a team with a worse run of form in the league than us. We had risen to the challenge with fearless courage. Three times we had punished the so called “Wolves”. Three times our tactical acumen had combined with our technical superiority to reward our young lions. Now only 16 clubs maintained a better goal difference and a mere 10 clubs sat above us in the oh so aptly named “Championship”.
Crisis, what crisis?
Beaming children wave pennants, blushing young maidens bedecked in garlands of spring flowers blow kisses, noble yeoman temporarily cease their toil in the fields. The Bees' bus edges through the throng and heads northwards toward the glowering grey skies of "Hatfield and the North".
No words of warning could prepare our innocent young boys for the filth and degradation that greets them as they descend from the immaculate vehicle. It's like a Hieronymus-Bosch but with trainers and shell suits. Deano ushers them into the "New York Stadium"?!? (what's that all about?). Unfortunately the unusual nomenclature has less Manhatten about it, more The Bronx after a riot. Old Colin's there and is playing his usual practical jokes on everyone. He gives Deano a mild electric shock when he shakes his hand, then slips a whoopee cushion under Rasmus' arse just as he sits down. CW pisses himself, RA shakes his head in disbelief. Thursday night it was Old Trafford with football royalty, today it's this dump with this *****.
Colin can't get enough of these humiliating booby traps. MB gets a bucket of water on his head as he enters the Director's lounge and when Cliff Crown removes his overcoat there's "Kick Me" pinned to the back of it. Colin's in stitches.
No one else is.
Come 2.45, as the lads warm up, the travelling Bees warm up with an off-colour version of Loretta Lynn's "coalminer's daughter". It's not very nice. The Millers come back with something totally unintelligible.
Deano and the fourteen coaches walk to the away dugout then walk back out again due to the stink bomb Colin has dropped in there.
Kick off is delayed because Colin's nicked the pea out of the whistle. He's crying with laughter. Eventually the game starts and to be honest, the biggest joke are Rovrum. They are only in the game because half their fans are shining lasers into the eyes of our boys. Despite this handicap Judge scores from thirty yards out. He's class.
Half time: Them 0 - Us 1
Second half our lads emerge in Ray-Bans and Deano emerges looking like Al Jolson due to the black-face soap that Colin put in the gents. Less of a happy chappy than before kick off Colin descends into foul mouthed abuse of all and sundry as the Millers go 2, then 3 down, (Vibe and Canos). Colin is sweating profusely and his handshake shock gizmo starts to short out. A light drizzle adds to his dilemma and because of the reduced electrical resistance he's soon twitching like David Byrne doing Pschokiller.
By final whistle, we stroll back in easy winners.
Them 0 - Us 4
Colin, 2nd degree burns: Current (I) = Voltage (V) / Resistance (R) - don't try this at home kids.
Any score. 
....:beer::beer::beer::beer::beer::beer::beer::beer:............COYR!!:bound:
