It’s strange that I grow ever more incredulous at this revelation as I get older. It wasn’t only the knowledge that my Mum had once been a regular attendee at Griffin Park, it unearthed a long family association with Brentford FC.
Oh yes, she continued: I used to go all the time with your granddad. Couldn’t see much of the football but I was only waiting for the man to come around with the peanuts. We think your great granddad played for them in goal.
Where do I start? A long family history of association with Brentford Football Club and I had reached the age of 12 before anyone uttered a word about it. Nobody, nothing, no hints, zilch. Not a bloody peep! Answers on a postcard, please.
Of course I took the phrase: We think your great granddad played for them in goal to mean: Your great granddad definitely played for them in goal, and was brilliant. This transformed me from a wanna be Roger Cross to a wanna be Bill Glazier, no sorry, Paul Priddy. If you've read this far than you have greater staying power than the former.
Sadly it transpired that my great granddad had never played for Brentford. I was let down gently by receipt of a beautifully written letter in reply to my enquiry from the late, great Graham Haynes. Nobody of that name had ever played for the Bees, he said. Nonetheless I assuaged my disappointment with the thought that the family had supported Brentford for many a long year. Bellowing the benefit of our sporting knowledge from the sidelines over all these years is better than playing for them in a way, don’t you think?
Now, back to 3rd November 1975. To offset the embarrassment of attending with my Mum I persuaded a school mate Mickey M to accompany me. I really can’t remember the circumstances surrounding this. Nice bloke as he was, I don’t recall Mickey having any sporting prowess, ambition or allegiance. I have no recollection of him coming along at any subsequent time, but he was, like me, a fledgling smoker and maybe the ample opportunity to slip off and have an illicit fag sold the deal.
The Workington game was my first fully under lights. And like my Mum, I was immediately taken with the intensity of colour and atmosphere. The green of the pitch was more brilliant than ever, red and white assumed a greater clarity and the dark unlit recesses added something that just seemed thrilling. Echoes in the dark and a common purpose is a heady mix.
Maybe it was the drudge of life for a 70s housewife that mad the contrast so great. My Mum spent five and a half days a week working on the till at Hawkins on Greenford Avenue, and the rest of her time cleaning up after me and my Dad. I have two older sisters who had both left home by this time but she still performed motherly duties for them. Add to this that my Dad wasn’t a well man and was frequently out of work, her life was hard and often cheerless. But as of the second we entered the ground my old lady lost any interest she may have previously had in peanuts and became an absolutely enthralled and dedicated born again Brentford fan. She simply wouldn’t accept any criticism of Brentford FC at any time; even when later in life I could begin to accept that the transformation to world beaters was taking longer than anticipated.
I have many memories of the game, having said that, they seem like memories, who knows after all, this time? Workington were the first team I had seen who entered the pitch to absolutely no sound at all. In the days of a sparsely attended, capaciously covered, reverberating Griffin Park, if you wanted to make your presence known, it was easy. Not a jot. Not a sound of support whatsoever. I immediately felt sorry for them, in an “Unless you beat us” sort of way. This pity-cum-affection lasts until today and I have made several visits to Borough Park, but that’s a different story.
Workington played in royal blue and white, adding to the carnival of colour in front of me. The Bees carried on where they had left off on Saturday and were 2-0 up at half time. I can remember Mickey M and I climbed up on the earth bank under the New Road in order to hide and share a No6. With so many nooks and crannies in the 1975 GP, I have no idea why we chose this spot? This plan to make ourselves invisible was entirely successful right up until the point that anybody looked vaguely in our direction. This is where it gets a bit hazy. I can’t for a second imagine that I would have left the action on the pitch for something as insignificant as half a fag. But the concourse in front of us was deserted, meaning that this was unlikely to have taken place at half time. Anyhow, at one point the sound of slow footsteps was heard. A policeman, in fully helmeted 1975 uniform walked past us, hands clasped behind his back. He looked up at us, thought about saying something, shook his head and walked on. I wonder what his reaction would have been if this had been November 1985?
Mickey and I returned to the terraces to see Brentford complete a 4-0 win over Workington. When it was time for Mickey to go one way at the end of the evening, and Mum and I went another it is poignant to think that of my two companions that night, one was never to return to GP again, whilst then other would attend at every opportunity. If you’d put money on which one, you’d have lost it.
I experienced my first local derby when Watford and loved it. Danis Salman made his debut for the Bees at the age of, oh I dunno, 12 and Terry Scales scored a second half winner. It’s funny what sticks in your mind. This was the first time I’d heard the word “leak” used in the context of having a wee. Everyone knows that “slash” is the correct terminology. We were corralled in the top corner of the New Road by police, and someone standing near me tried to leave. When denied this, he complained loudly and bitterly that “He only wanted a leak!” This required no further explanation, and being of advancing years, I can entirely sympathise with his plight now.
Progress was made in the FA Cup, beating Northampton at home 2-0. The Cobblers were doing quite well IIRC and brought a large following. In the second round we won 2-1 at Wimbledon (no AFC in those days, kids) in a game that I was expressly forbidden from making my surreptitious way to, on pain of all sorts of horrible punishments.
Two 3-0 wins in December meant a happy Christmas in preparation for my second local derby against Reading.
I remember standing outside the Royal Oak from approximately 13:30 as my Dad went in to see a man about a dog. I waited outside with the standard Coke/Pepsi watching the world go by when to my right, across the railway bridge came a group of Reading fans. This is not an old fisherman’s tale, but there were 15-20 of them. Honest! But it doesn’t matter because this is a recollection of a moment of abject cowardice, not some boast from the past. I stood there, trying to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible when one of then spotted me and pointing in my direction said: there’s a Brentford fan!
I can feel my 13 year old clacker going as I type. They approached me, slowly, just for dramatic effect. They were all older, more muscular and undoubtedly harder than me! They were blokes. In that last second before I had to decide on fight or ignominious flight (it would have been the latter, believe me) one of them called across the road: ‘Ere mate, where’s the nearest pub? They won’t let us in ‘ere!
I have never been gladder to give someone directions and I gave them precise and no doubt gushingly grateful coordinates for the Windmill. Let me tell you, if my pocket money had stretched to it, I would have bought them all a pint for leaving me intact.
I had regained my composure when Dad emerged from the RO. Negotiations were obviously long, protracted and ultimately unsuccessful as he never did walk triumphantly out of the door bearing an Alsatian puppy in his arms that could have joined its cousin on New Road.
This was a memorable game. Another local derby, I had enjoyed the last one immensely. Bees 2-0 up at one stage and a violent encounter between Gordon Cummins and Roger Cross taking place just yards from where I was stood! Both were sent off, the latter unjustly in my opinion. Surely, forearm smashes were part of the game? Anyhow, the Bees were 2-1 up going into the eight minute of stoppage time. A Reading corner came into the box, an easy catch for Paul Priddy. Except it wasn’t, the ball ended up in the net. There literally was time to kick off, when the final whistle was blown.
There are no words to describe how distraught I felt at this moment. I knew what it was to suffer a broken heart long before any woman took the opportunity to ensure that I was fully au fait with the feeling. You know what? I’m still annoyed about it now!
You pick yourself up, you have to and after a few long faced days, the prospect of a 3rd Round FA Cup tie got me back to my usual unreasonably optimistic self. To paraphrase Dudley Moore: I’m talking about a time when the FA Cup was considered an important competition.
This was gonna make people sit up and take notice! Used to being the butt of football related mickey taking, I was soon to be the gloater, rather than the gloatee. Silverware would be coming to GP this season after all.
If early November’s nine goals in two games weren’t a sign, then what the hell is?
With the benefit of hindsight I would counsel any new Beeslover that it’s worth bearing in mind that a raised middle finger is also a sign.
To be continued........
