A Post-Halloween horror story
Far, far below Griffin Park, deeper than the deepest mines and darker than the darkest night, exists a network of pre-historic caverns. In this endless maze of caves uncharted, live the bloodthirsty “Warnocks”; an ancient troll like race whose only link to the outside world is the primitive "Beesplayer". They have never seen the post-modern world of "TikaTaka". For them a high press is something made in Corby. They still hold to pagan beliefs such as the “Long Ball” and “The Reacher” they worship ancient gods known to them as “Bigsam”, “Bigron” and their supreme deity “Colin”. They believe that one day the old ways will lead Brentford FC back to their glory days. And, on their alter, high above the blood stained table of ritual sacrifice, higher still than the portrait of the prophet Charles Reep, on a red and white cushion sits their holy of holies - The London War Cup of 1942. Yes dear readers, the trophy that commemorates our finest day now inspires those ghastly creatures; and each year, on the matchday closest to Halloween, in their pagan sanctum a young Brentford virgin is sacrificed to "Colin" on that fearful stone and The Cup is filled with her blood. The Warnocks drink from it one to the next; each year the success they pray for eludes them, and each year the search for a Brentford virgin gets harder and harder.
Wednesday night, Halloween - Buzz-Ettes flat above Mr Singh's Corner Shop
Buzz-Ette and her shouty mates are well into the snakebite. They scream with laughter as they apple-bob in a bucket full of Diamond White. The doorbell buzzes (well it wouldn't ring would it?). Our tipsy bumble bee beauty saunters down to the door with a selection of home made honey based candies and is confronted by a group of the savages from the world of the Warnocks. Momentarily she mistakes them a group of scallywags from Brentford Towers in fancy dress - it's a mistake anyone might make. But no these are not harmless kiddies looking for sweeties; far from it. Her muffled cries for help are inaudible to the half p*ssed harpies within and the wild men carry her off, down, down deeper on down, towards their dark world and towards her awful fate.
Thursday and Friday
Everyone assumes she's either sleeping off the snakebite or has copped off with some bloke.
Saturday Morning.
Betinho's walking down to the Brewery Tap with Buzz-Bee for a quick pint before the match, they pass Mr Singh's and try to raise Buzz-Ette. No answer. Mr Singh's no help, he hasn't seen hide nor hair of her since Wednesday. At that moment, Betty notices a trail of honeycomb candies leading away from the door of the flat and towards a half open manhole. They put 2 and 2 together and follow the trail downwards. Down and down they go, with only Betty's iPhone to light their path. On and on, through grottos never before walked by man. Eventually, far below, they hear the muffled grotesque chants of the Warnocks (a bit like what Reading fans sound like). Further and further, a faint glimmer of light flickers on the ceiling of the cavern, the chanting becomes clearer. "Colin, Colin, Colin" echoes through the damp air. Finally after what seems like hours they find themselves looking down onto the sacrificial scene. A virginal Buzz-Ette (now I really am stretching my imagination), dressed in a diaphanous white gown lies strapped to the altar. The high priest, naked but for a hideous face mask in the likeness of Sam Allardyce, stands over her, brandishing his enormous weapon. At this moment Betty drops his iPhone and it clatters to the floor of the cave. The Warnocks turn, the priest regards the device, on its screen the pre match warm up on iFollow - Betty's got a VPN, and a surprisingly good reception considering they're miles underground. While the savages are distracted the three lads sneak down and release our petrified Bee/girl. But as they dart up the steps Buzz-Ette's gown snags on the War Cup. From the niche where it stood a vast spout of London Pride begins to flow. Elswhere, Strongbow pours from crevices, fissures open in the walls and Carlsberg streams from them. Our fugitives find their path blocked by teeming Warnocks, just like in Indiana Jones, they run up a convenient side passage where they fall into an enormous whirlpool of the boozy flood, it sweeps them upwards. Within seconds, the liquid disgorges them into the New Road Bogs. -so that's where that smell comes from. They run into the paddock to find the match has already kicked off. Chivalrous supporters protect Buzz-Ette's modesty with various scarves and banners.
After a good solid week of "The Frank Method", our lads, as expected, are back to their early season form. Fluid one touch football is making Millwall look like donkeys. Just as Sawyers is taking the piss with back passes and all that, hordes of beer soaked Warnocks emerge from that little building next to the Wendy House. The Millwall fans mistake them for a late coach load of their supporters and invite them onto the terrace. The Warnocks watch the match transfixed by the beauty of our modern free flowing game. By five to five the Bees are 5-0 winners and the Warnocks are converted to The Bees Way.
Full Time:
Us: 5 - Them: 0
On the way out The Warnocks bond with the Millwall Ultras and they agree to go on a camping holiday in the Lake District together. They ditch their "Colin" stuff and stock up on lots of "Ole and Steen" pastries before they return to the underworld.
Happy Halloween Bees.
Good Times!