Griffin Park Update

shepperton bee

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I feel the same , the GP that I fell in love with as a kid disappeared a long time ago , once they started fencing off large sections and then of course taking down the back part of the New Road and demolishing the Royal Oak it wasn’t really Griffin Park.
We are so lucky to have a new stadium that pretty much everyone loves in a fantastic location , of all the new ground projects it’s probably only us and Spurs fans who feel the same way .
 

FlyBee

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I feel the same , the GP that I fell in love with as a kid disappeared a long time ago , once they started fencing off large sections and then of course taking down the back part of the New Road and demolishing the Royal Oak it wasn’t really Griffin Park.
We are so lucky to have a new stadium that pretty much everyone loves in a fantastic location , of all the new ground projects it’s probably only us and Spurs fans who feel the same way .
It was always Griffin Park to me, but the seats going in New Road changed things from how I remember it back in the day. Of course there was no alternative. We were lucky to keep ER until the end.

It was during the fairwell tour where there was no atmosphere, no buzz, no smell of burgers and an eerie silence that I realised how decrepit the old place really was.

We can't go back, but we are so lucky to have an amazing new home. So great to hear that everyone has found their voice at LR too. What a sound to hear all four stands singing. Amazing.
 

Downbeat Bee

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I loved GP. I love the last few years there and I loved where I sat in the last period especially. Unlike others I miss it and I am sorry ‘the end’ was curtailed. Although delighted with the Marcondes goal in the last game.

But my current vantage point is great as is the football.
 

BlueJayBee

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It was during the fairwell tour where there was no atmosphere, no buzz, no smell of burgers and an eerie silence that I realised how decrepit the old place really was.
Yes, it was definitely a "closure".

On the evening of the Arsenal game, I walked past Griffin Park and stopped to peer through the gates at the old away entrance. I didn't feel sad. All I felt was excitement about that night's game. That's when I realised that I (we?) had moved on.
 

johndub

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Went for a walk today to Brentford and took some photos of Griffin Park and The Princess Royal. Apologies if similar photos have been posted previously but this is an update.
 

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Ruislip_Rich

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I walked down New Road after the game on Sunday. I had a brief look into the old girl and felt no emotion.
Time is a great healer.
We have moved on to better, it's a bit like ex players... have fond memories but we get better.
Keep moving to keep growing.
 

Venerablee

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Kind neighbour driving to TW8 yesterday allowed me to vanquish ill health for last circuit of GP. The place had decayed for many a year, but what was left now?

En route, I regressed to first manager Bill Dodgin, and passing the 500 mark during his son’s tenure. As ‘50s Junior Bee, I acquired SA handbook plus back number which begged members not to be so beastly to sedulous recent arrival Jimmy Hill. Around then, I had to limp home from Turnham Green following a vicious tackle by Martin Lange: I was patched up by mum (she never forgave him) so I could hobble aboard a bus to the match on the morrow, hoping to sit near George Bristow, who sometimes ported his boots in a carrier bag.

Trundling along Ealing Road now, without familiar floodlights (likely dismantled and disposed of, but they would’ve improved gloomy Loftus. There again, anything would). Royal Horse Guardsman extant, billing CL screenings. Further along, ground entrance blocked by black wooden gates with “Site Acquired” signs and topped with caltrops to deter mountaineers.

Into New Road, past first pub and those houses where you could park your bike for a small fee. “Welcome to Brentford FC” still visible on roof of Braemar stand opposite. Out to peer through blocked up NR entrance: to my waning eyesight, little visible, just some rubble and faded red paint. All too desolate to rekindle match-day buzz and scurrying to claim “our” bit of crush barrier to savour Wrexham 9-0 and (Oh Joy!) Bushites 6-1. Mood uplifted by chat with friendly NR resident - fellow supporter - who once encountered J Greaves supping in pub two hours before his kick-off.

Under cover of this stand, you could pity huddled diehards on storm-lashed open ER terrace - sister to Blackpool’s Gene Kelly Stand (they’re singing in the rain). It was dicey there, too, when Brentford’s first loan signing, England Amateur Dennis Edwards, was about. During his short stay, Dennis, famed for blistering but oft wayward shooting, bagged two goals and three 65 buses.

Pond life often accompanied local clubs, but cheery banter was found with others. How could you not befriend some poor devil who’s journeyed from Workington deep in winter, or a Pilgrim sharing home-made Argy pasties at half-time during a 28,000+ div 3 fixture? Less fragrant later on was that foul ginger skunk and his Shrimper coven inviting all comers on the corner by the old timber yard (now housing), opposite the New Inn (pub still active, as is the Brook/Oak which closes Mons & Tues but opens other evenings).

Left into Brook Road, and overflying rose-ringed parakeet exemplifies life’s mutation as I squint through gaps at wilderness stretching to Ealing Road. Spent time in this buoyant stand when nomadic, pre-Wendy: a floodlit game here was an adventure, although, to my virtuous and incorrupt nature, partisan Oakies could go a little OTT.

Turning left into Braemar sparks memories of engaging ‘60s landladies. One here at The Griffin (still open), others at Pottery Arms, North Star (both demolished) and dear old Lena at The Waterman’s (flourishing).

Another stop to view forecourt and offices, but whole ground seems bereft of human activity. Glimpse of the old tunnel triggers sudden recollection of right back Tom “Tug” Wilson who shared a flat with Bobby Robson and Jimmy Hill when at Fulham. Later he was involved in property and returned there as director. He it was who masterminded the purchase of Craven Cottage from RBS to save it from developers; this marked the collapse of their proposed merger with QPR (a union which forever would have denied the world the El Crapico). What a plan! Fulham Park Rangers, on plastic, with fellow Marler Estates bondmen Chelsea urged to share to release even more prime land near the river. Tug used to take a last puff at his gasper, grind its butt underfoot in the tunnel, tuck a ball under his arm and cough his way onto the turf as head of phalanx.

Lights on in old Bees Store and baffled would-be customer offered advice after unsuccessfully knocking and trying the door, with no signage to enlighten/redirect her. It’s Brentford, innit?

Back to Ealing Road now and forlorn Princess Royal, windows daintily opaque, with intact “BFC Next fixture” sign high over the door: nevertheless, pub defunct. Saw virtually no graffiti here or anywhere, whether due to reverence or indifference, I’m not sure. Ended up watching at this end as I loathed perching at matches, although it provoked vile personal insult from bruised neighbours as I couldn’t help “kicking the ball” at crucial moments. Still do it in my TV dotage: when the Raya/Toney/Mbeumo combine smacked in the clincher against Wolves, I fell off the bloody chair!

Sadly, in both centuries I have narrowly missed viewing the top flight and I truly envy those acclaiming the pulsating new stadium and able to bitch on about its catering, etc. (even on the road, a Tupperware box sufficed for us, its sandwiches partitioned off from the Vi . . . ne ripened tomatoes). But younger, livelier and noisier folk are needed at LR now.

Nevertheless, fettered from moving on as I am, I felt overpowering emotional empathy towards the old ruin today as the wheel turns full circle for us both. But the site seems ready to revert to the gypsy camp once it was, when ponies grazed the orchard early last century: a gladiator, mortally wounded and begging the mercy cut, but also pleading to be remembered in his heroic prime.
 

Ealing Bee

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Kind neighbour driving to TW8 yesterday allowed me to vanquish ill health for last circuit of GP. The place had decayed for many a year, but what was left now?

En route, I regressed to first manager Bill Dodgin, and passing the 500 mark during his son’s tenure. As ‘50s Junior Bee, I acquired SA handbook plus back number which begged members not to be so beastly to sedulous recent arrival Jimmy Hill. Around then, I had to limp home from Turnham Green following a vicious tackle by Martin Lange: I was patched up by mum (she never forgave him) so I could hobble aboard a bus to the match on the morrow, hoping to sit near George Bristow, who sometimes ported his boots in a carrier bag.

Trundling along Ealing Road now, without familiar floodlights (likely dismantled and disposed of, but they would’ve improved gloomy Loftus. There again, anything would). Royal Horse Guardsman extant, billing CL screenings. Further along, ground entrance blocked by black wooden gates with “Site Acquired” signs and topped with caltrops to deter mountaineers.

Into New Road, past first pub and those houses where you could park your bike for a small fee. “Welcome to Brentford FC” still visible on roof of Braemar stand opposite. Out to peer through blocked up NR entrance: to my waning eyesight, little visible, just some rubble and faded red paint. All too desolate to rekindle match-day buzz and scurrying to claim “our” bit of crush barrier to savour Wrexham 9-0 and (Oh Joy!) Bushites 6-1. Mood uplifted by chat with friendly NR resident - fellow supporter - who once encountered J Greaves supping in pub two hours before his kick-off.

Under cover of this stand, you could pity huddled diehards on storm-lashed open ER terrace - sister to Blackpool’s Gene Kelly Stand (they’re singing in the rain). It was dicey there, too, when Brentford’s first loan signing, England Amateur Dennis Edwards, was about. During his short stay, Dennis, famed for blistering but oft wayward shooting, bagged two goals and three 65 buses.

Pond life often accompanied local clubs, but cheery banter was found with others. How could you not befriend some poor devil who’s journeyed from Workington deep in winter, or a Pilgrim sharing home-made Argy pasties at half-time during a 28,000+ div 3 fixture? Less fragrant later on was that foul ginger skunk and his Shrimper coven inviting all comers on the corner by the old timber yard (now housing), opposite the New Inn (pub still active, as is the Brook/Oak which closes Mons & Tues but opens other evenings).

Left into Brook Road, and overflying rose-ringed parakeet exemplifies life’s mutation as I squint through gaps at wilderness stretching to Ealing Road. Spent time in this buoyant stand when nomadic, pre-Wendy: a floodlit game here was an adventure, although, to my virtuous and incorrupt nature, partisan Oakies could go a little OTT.

Turning left into Braemar sparks memories of engaging ‘60s landladies. One here at The Griffin (still open), others at Pottery Arms, North Star (both demolished) and dear old Lena at The Waterman’s (flourishing).

Another stop to view forecourt and offices, but whole ground seems bereft of human activity. Glimpse of the old tunnel triggers sudden recollection of right back Tom “Tug” Wilson who shared a flat with Bobby Robson and Jimmy Hill when at Fulham. Later he was involved in property and returned there as director. He it was who masterminded the purchase of Craven Cottage from RBS to save it from developers; this marked the collapse of their proposed merger with QPR (a union which forever would have denied the world the El Crapico). What a plan! Fulham Park Rangers, on plastic, with fellow Marler Estates bondmen Chelsea urged to share to release even more prime land near the river. Tug used to take a last puff at his gasper, grind its butt underfoot in the tunnel, tuck a ball under his arm and cough his way onto the turf as head of phalanx.

Lights on in old Bees Store and baffled would-be customer offered advice after unsuccessfully knocking and trying the door, with no signage to enlighten/redirect her. It’s Brentford, innit?

Back to Ealing Road now and forlorn Princess Royal, windows daintily opaque, with intact “BFC Next fixture” sign high over the door: nevertheless, pub defunct. Saw virtually no graffiti here or anywhere, whether due to reverence or indifference, I’m not sure. Ended up watching at this end as I loathed perching at matches, although it provoked vile personal insult from bruised neighbours as I couldn’t help “kicking the ball” at crucial moments. Still do it in my TV dotage: when the Raya/Toney/Mbeumo combine smacked in the clincher against Wolves, I fell off the bloody chair!

Sadly, in both centuries I have narrowly missed viewing the top flight and I truly envy those acclaiming the pulsating new stadium and able to bitch on about its catering, etc. (even on the road, a Tupperware box sufficed for us, its sandwiches partitioned off from the Vi . . . ne ripened tomatoes). But younger, livelier and noisier folk are needed at LR now.

Nevertheless, fettered from moving on as I am, I felt overpowering emotional empathy towards the old ruin today as the wheel turns full circle for us both. But the site seems ready to revert to the gypsy camp once it was, when ponies grazed the orchard early last century: a gladiator, mortally wounded and begging the mercy cut, but also pleading to be remembered in his heroic prime.
Has there ever been a more epic first post on the GPG?

Brilliant stuff, esp loved the Dennis Edwards, two goals and three 65 buses! :)
 

Bill Benn

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Kind neighbour driving to TW8 yesterday allowed me to vanquish ill health for last circuit of GP. The place had decayed for many a year, but what was left now?

En route, I regressed to first manager Bill Dodgin, and passing the 500 mark during his son’s tenure. As ‘50s Junior Bee, I acquired SA handbook plus back number which begged members not to be so beastly to sedulous recent arrival Jimmy Hill. Around then, I had to limp home from Turnham Green following a vicious tackle by Martin Lange: I was patched up by mum (she never forgave him) so I could hobble aboard a bus to the match on the morrow, hoping to sit near George Bristow, who sometimes ported his boots in a carrier bag.

Trundling along Ealing Road now, without familiar floodlights (likely dismantled and disposed of, but they would’ve improved gloomy Loftus. There again, anything would). Royal Horse Guardsman extant, billing CL screenings. Further along, ground entrance blocked by black wooden gates with “Site Acquired” signs and topped with caltrops to deter mountaineers.

Into New Road, past first pub and those houses where you could park your bike for a small fee. “Welcome to Brentford FC” still visible on roof of Braemar stand opposite. Out to peer through blocked up NR entrance: to my waning eyesight, little visible, just some rubble and faded red paint. All too desolate to rekindle match-day buzz and scurrying to claim “our” bit of crush barrier to savour Wrexham 9-0 and (Oh Joy!) Bushites 6-1. Mood uplifted by chat with friendly NR resident - fellow supporter - who once encountered J Greaves supping in pub two hours before his kick-off.

Under cover of this stand, you could pity huddled diehards on storm-lashed open ER terrace - sister to Blackpool’s Gene Kelly Stand (they’re singing in the rain). It was dicey there, too, when Brentford’s first loan signing, England Amateur Dennis Edwards, was about. During his short stay, Dennis, famed for blistering but oft wayward shooting, bagged two goals and three 65 buses.

Pond life often accompanied local clubs, but cheery banter was found with others. How could you not befriend some poor devil who’s journeyed from Workington deep in winter, or a Pilgrim sharing home-made Argy pasties at half-time during a 28,000+ div 3 fixture? Less fragrant later on was that foul ginger skunk and his Shrimper coven inviting all comers on the corner by the old timber yard (now housing), opposite the New Inn (pub still active, as is the Brook/Oak which closes Mons & Tues but opens other evenings).

Left into Brook Road, and overflying rose-ringed parakeet exemplifies life’s mutation as I squint through gaps at wilderness stretching to Ealing Road. Spent time in this buoyant stand when nomadic, pre-Wendy: a floodlit game here was an adventure, although, to my virtuous and incorrupt nature, partisan Oakies could go a little OTT.

Turning left into Braemar sparks memories of engaging ‘60s landladies. One here at The Griffin (still open), others at Pottery Arms, North Star (both demolished) and dear old Lena at The Waterman’s (flourishing).

Another stop to view forecourt and offices, but whole ground seems bereft of human activity. Glimpse of the old tunnel triggers sudden recollection of right back Tom “Tug” Wilson who shared a flat with Bobby Robson and Jimmy Hill when at Fulham. Later he was involved in property and returned there as director. He it was who masterminded the purchase of Craven Cottage from RBS to save it from developers; this marked the collapse of their proposed merger with QPR (a union which forever would have denied the world the El Crapico). What a plan! Fulham Park Rangers, on plastic, with fellow Marler Estates bondmen Chelsea urged to share to release even more prime land near the river. Tug used to take a last puff at his gasper, grind its butt underfoot in the tunnel, tuck a ball under his arm and cough his way onto the turf as head of phalanx.

Lights on in old Bees Store and baffled would-be customer offered advice after unsuccessfully knocking and trying the door, with no signage to enlighten/redirect her. It’s Brentford, innit?

Back to Ealing Road now and forlorn Princess Royal, windows daintily opaque, with intact “BFC Next fixture” sign high over the door: nevertheless, pub defunct. Saw virtually no graffiti here or anywhere, whether due to reverence or indifference, I’m not sure. Ended up watching at this end as I loathed perching at matches, although it provoked vile personal insult from bruised neighbours as I couldn’t help “kicking the ball” at crucial moments. Still do it in my TV dotage: when the Raya/Toney/Mbeumo combine smacked in the clincher against Wolves, I fell off the bloody chair!

Sadly, in both centuries I have narrowly missed viewing the top flight and I truly envy those acclaiming the pulsating new stadium and able to bitch on about its catering, etc. (even on the road, a Tupperware box sufficed for us, its sandwiches partitioned off from the Vi . . . ne ripened tomatoes). But younger, livelier and noisier folk are needed at LR now.

Nevertheless, fettered from moving on as I am, I felt overpowering emotional empathy towards the old ruin today as the wheel turns full circle for us both. But the site seems ready to revert to the gypsy camp once it was, when ponies grazed the orchard early last century: a gladiator, mortally wounded and begging the mercy cut, but also pleading to be remembered in his heroic prime.
What a great read thanks for that
 

cheshirebee

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Kind neighbour driving to TW8 yesterday allowed me to vanquish ill health for last circuit of GP. The place had decayed for many a year, but what was left now?

En route, I regressed to first manager Bill Dodgin, and passing the 500 mark during his son’s tenure. As ‘50s Junior Bee, I acquired SA handbook plus back number which begged members not to be so beastly to sedulous recent arrival Jimmy Hill. Around then, I had to limp home from Turnham Green following a vicious tackle by Martin Lange: I was patched up by mum (she never forgave him) so I could hobble aboard a bus to the match on the morrow, hoping to sit near George Bristow, who sometimes ported his boots in a carrier bag.

Trundling along Ealing Road now, without familiar floodlights (likely dismantled and disposed of, but they would’ve improved gloomy Loftus. There again, anything would). Royal Horse Guardsman extant, billing CL screenings. Further along, ground entrance blocked by black wooden gates with “Site Acquired” signs and topped with caltrops to deter mountaineers.

Into New Road, past first pub and those houses where you could park your bike for a small fee. “Welcome to Brentford FC” still visible on roof of Braemar stand opposite. Out to peer through blocked up NR entrance: to my waning eyesight, little visible, just some rubble and faded red paint. All too desolate to rekindle match-day buzz and scurrying to claim “our” bit of crush barrier to savour Wrexham 9-0 and (Oh Joy!) Bushites 6-1. Mood uplifted by chat with friendly NR resident - fellow supporter - who once encountered J Greaves supping in pub two hours before his kick-off.

Under cover of this stand, you could pity huddled diehards on storm-lashed open ER terrace - sister to Blackpool’s Gene Kelly Stand (they’re singing in the rain). It was dicey there, too, when Brentford’s first loan signing, England Amateur Dennis Edwards, was about. During his short stay, Dennis, famed for blistering but oft wayward shooting, bagged two goals and three 65 buses.

Pond life often accompanied local clubs, but cheery banter was found with others. How could you not befriend some poor devil who’s journeyed from Workington deep in winter, or a Pilgrim sharing home-made Argy pasties at half-time during a 28,000+ div 3 fixture? Less fragrant later on was that foul ginger skunk and his Shrimper coven inviting all comers on the corner by the old timber yard (now housing), opposite the New Inn (pub still active, as is the Brook/Oak which closes Mons & Tues but opens other evenings).

Left into Brook Road, and overflying rose-ringed parakeet exemplifies life’s mutation as I squint through gaps at wilderness stretching to Ealing Road. Spent time in this buoyant stand when nomadic, pre-Wendy: a floodlit game here was an adventure, although, to my virtuous and incorrupt nature, partisan Oakies could go a little OTT.

Turning left into Braemar sparks memories of engaging ‘60s landladies. One here at The Griffin (still open), others at Pottery Arms, North Star (both demolished) and dear old Lena at The Waterman’s (flourishing).

Another stop to view forecourt and offices, but whole ground seems bereft of human activity. Glimpse of the old tunnel triggers sudden recollection of right back Tom “Tug” Wilson who shared a flat with Bobby Robson and Jimmy Hill when at Fulham. Later he was involved in property and returned there as director. He it was who masterminded the purchase of Craven Cottage from RBS to save it from developers; this marked the collapse of their proposed merger with QPR (a union which forever would have denied the world the El Crapico). What a plan! Fulham Park Rangers, on plastic, with fellow Marler Estates bondmen Chelsea urged to share to release even more prime land near the river. Tug used to take a last puff at his gasper, grind its butt underfoot in the tunnel, tuck a ball under his arm and cough his way onto the turf as head of phalanx.

Lights on in old Bees Store and baffled would-be customer offered advice after unsuccessfully knocking and trying the door, with no signage to enlighten/redirect her. It’s Brentford, innit?

Back to Ealing Road now and forlorn Princess Royal, windows daintily opaque, with intact “BFC Next fixture” sign high over the door: nevertheless, pub defunct. Saw virtually no graffiti here or anywhere, whether due to reverence or indifference, I’m not sure. Ended up watching at this end as I loathed perching at matches, although it provoked vile personal insult from bruised neighbours as I couldn’t help “kicking the ball” at crucial moments. Still do it in my TV dotage: when the Raya/Toney/Mbeumo combine smacked in the clincher against Wolves, I fell off the bloody chair!

Sadly, in both centuries I have narrowly missed viewing the top flight and I truly envy those acclaiming the pulsating new stadium and able to bitch on about its catering, etc. (even on the road, a Tupperware box sufficed for us, its sandwiches partitioned off from the Vi . . . ne ripened tomatoes). But younger, livelier and noisier folk are needed at LR now.

Nevertheless, fettered from moving on as I am, I felt overpowering emotional empathy towards the old ruin today as the wheel turns full circle for us both. But the site seems ready to revert to the gypsy camp once it was, when ponies grazed the orchard early last century: a gladiator, mortally wounded and begging the mercy cut, but also pleading to be remembered in his heroic prime.
Thank you. What an entrancing read.
Please get to BCS. You’ll love it, and sounds like you deserve a day in the sun there.
Take care.
 

Hippobee

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Health Warning - do not open this if of an emotional disposition. Photo taken from behind Brook Road flats on Sunday. Pile of grass clippings makes a great vantage point !
Good to see the New Road bogs puddle of pee is still alive and well, albeit now at the front of the stand.
 

nocoat

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Kind neighbour driving to TW8 yesterday allowed me to vanquish ill health for last circuit of GP. The place had decayed for many a year, but what was left now?

En route, I regressed to first manager Bill Dodgin, and passing the 500 mark during his son’s tenure. As ‘50s Junior Bee, I acquired SA handbook plus back number which begged members not to be so beastly to sedulous recent arrival Jimmy Hill. Around then, I had to limp home from Turnham Green following a vicious tackle by Martin Lange: I was patched up by mum (she never forgave him) so I could hobble aboard a bus to the match on the morrow, hoping to sit near George Bristow, who sometimes ported his boots in a carrier bag.

Trundling along Ealing Road now, without familiar floodlights (likely dismantled and disposed of, but they would’ve improved gloomy Loftus. There again, anything would). Royal Horse Guardsman extant, billing CL screenings. Further along, ground entrance blocked by black wooden gates with “Site Acquired” signs and topped with caltrops to deter mountaineers.

Into New Road, past first pub and those houses where you could park your bike for a small fee. “Welcome to Brentford FC” still visible on roof of Braemar stand opposite. Out to peer through blocked up NR entrance: to my waning eyesight, little visible, just some rubble and faded red paint. All too desolate to rekindle match-day buzz and scurrying to claim “our” bit of crush barrier to savour Wrexham 9-0 and (Oh Joy!) Bushites 6-1. Mood uplifted by chat with friendly NR resident - fellow supporter - who once encountered J Greaves supping in pub two hours before his kick-off.

Under cover of this stand, you could pity huddled diehards on storm-lashed open ER terrace - sister to Blackpool’s Gene Kelly Stand (they’re singing in the rain). It was dicey there, too, when Brentford’s first loan signing, England Amateur Dennis Edwards, was about. During his short stay, Dennis, famed for blistering but oft wayward shooting, bagged two goals and three 65 buses.

Pond life often accompanied local clubs, but cheery banter was found with others. How could you not befriend some poor devil who’s journeyed from Workington deep in winter, or a Pilgrim sharing home-made Argy pasties at half-time during a 28,000+ div 3 fixture? Less fragrant later on was that foul ginger skunk and his Shrimper coven inviting all comers on the corner by the old timber yard (now housing), opposite the New Inn (pub still active, as is the Brook/Oak which closes Mons & Tues but opens other evenings).

Left into Brook Road, and overflying rose-ringed parakeet exemplifies life’s mutation as I squint through gaps at wilderness stretching to Ealing Road. Spent time in this buoyant stand when nomadic, pre-Wendy: a floodlit game here was an adventure, although, to my virtuous and incorrupt nature, partisan Oakies could go a little OTT.

Turning left into Braemar sparks memories of engaging ‘60s landladies. One here at The Griffin (still open), others at Pottery Arms, North Star (both demolished) and dear old Lena at The Waterman’s (flourishing).

Another stop to view forecourt and offices, but whole ground seems bereft of human activity. Glimpse of the old tunnel triggers sudden recollection of right back Tom “Tug” Wilson who shared a flat with Bobby Robson and Jimmy Hill when at Fulham. Later he was involved in property and returned there as director. He it was who masterminded the purchase of Craven Cottage from RBS to save it from developers; this marked the collapse of their proposed merger with QPR (a union which forever would have denied the world the El Crapico). What a plan! Fulham Park Rangers, on plastic, with fellow Marler Estates bondmen Chelsea urged to share to release even more prime land near the river. Tug used to take a last puff at his gasper, grind its butt underfoot in the tunnel, tuck a ball under his arm and cough his way onto the turf as head of phalanx.

Lights on in old Bees Store and baffled would-be customer offered advice after unsuccessfully knocking and trying the door, with no signage to enlighten/redirect her. It’s Brentford, innit?

Back to Ealing Road now and forlorn Princess Royal, windows daintily opaque, with intact “BFC Next fixture” sign high over the door: nevertheless, pub defunct. Saw virtually no graffiti here or anywhere, whether due to reverence or indifference, I’m not sure. Ended up watching at this end as I loathed perching at matches, although it provoked vile personal insult from bruised neighbours as I couldn’t help “kicking the ball” at crucial moments. Still do it in my TV dotage: when the Raya/Toney/Mbeumo combine smacked in the clincher against Wolves, I fell off the bloody chair!

Sadly, in both centuries I have narrowly missed viewing the top flight and I truly envy those acclaiming the pulsating new stadium and able to bitch on about its catering, etc. (even on the road, a Tupperware box sufficed for us, its sandwiches partitioned off from the Vi . . . ne ripened tomatoes). But younger, livelier and noisier folk are needed at LR now.

Nevertheless, fettered from moving on as I am, I felt overpowering emotional empathy towards the old ruin today as the wheel turns full circle for us both. But the site seems ready to revert to the gypsy camp once it was, when ponies grazed the orchard early last century: a gladiator, mortally wounded and begging the mercy cut, but also pleading to be remembered in his heroic prime.

👏 👏
 

BEEcool

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Has there ever been a more epic first post on the GPG?

Brilliant stuff, esp loved the Dennis Edwards, two goals and three 65 buses! :)
It wasn’t venerablee’s first post but even if it was, whilst it’s a great piece writing, sakurameng asking who can get loads of tickets for him and his mates for the Leicester game without any context or further explanation was the most epic first post I’ve ever seen.
 
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kaebess

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Kind neighbour driving to TW8 yesterday allowed me to vanquish ill health for last circuit of GP. The place had decayed for many a year, but what was left now?

En route, I regressed to first manager Bill Dodgin, and passing the 500 mark during his son’s tenure. As ‘50s Junior Bee, I acquired SA handbook plus back number which begged members not to be so beastly to sedulous recent arrival Jimmy Hill. Around then, I had to limp home from Turnham Green following a vicious tackle by Martin Lange: I was patched up by mum (she never forgave him) so I could hobble aboard a bus to the match on the morrow, hoping to sit near George Bristow, who sometimes ported his boots in a carrier bag.

Trundling along Ealing Road now, without familiar floodlights (likely dismantled and disposed of, but they would’ve improved gloomy Loftus. There again, anything would). Royal Horse Guardsman extant, billing CL screenings. Further along, ground entrance blocked by black wooden gates with “Site Acquired” signs and topped with caltrops to deter mountaineers.

Into New Road, past first pub and those houses where you could park your bike for a small fee. “Welcome to Brentford FC” still visible on roof of Braemar stand opposite. Out to peer through blocked up NR entrance: to my waning eyesight, little visible, just some rubble and faded red paint. All too desolate to rekindle match-day buzz and scurrying to claim “our” bit of crush barrier to savour Wrexham 9-0 and (Oh Joy!) Bushites 6-1. Mood uplifted by chat with friendly NR resident - fellow supporter - who once encountered J Greaves supping in pub two hours before his kick-off.

Under cover of this stand, you could pity huddled diehards on storm-lashed open ER terrace - sister to Blackpool’s Gene Kelly Stand (they’re singing in the rain). It was dicey there, too, when Brentford’s first loan signing, England Amateur Dennis Edwards, was about. During his short stay, Dennis, famed for blistering but oft wayward shooting, bagged two goals and three 65 buses.

Pond life often accompanied local clubs, but cheery banter was found with others. How could you not befriend some poor devil who’s journeyed from Workington deep in winter, or a Pilgrim sharing home-made Argy pasties at half-time during a 28,000+ div 3 fixture? Less fragrant later on was that foul ginger skunk and his Shrimper coven inviting all comers on the corner by the old timber yard (now housing), opposite the New Inn (pub still active, as is the Brook/Oak which closes Mons & Tues but opens other evenings).

Left into Brook Road, and overflying rose-ringed parakeet exemplifies life’s mutation as I squint through gaps at wilderness stretching to Ealing Road. Spent time in this buoyant stand when nomadic, pre-Wendy: a floodlit game here was an adventure, although, to my virtuous and incorrupt nature, partisan Oakies could go a little OTT.

Turning left into Braemar sparks memories of engaging ‘60s landladies. One here at The Griffin (still open), others at Pottery Arms, North Star (both demolished) and dear old Lena at The Waterman’s (flourishing).

Another stop to view forecourt and offices, but whole ground seems bereft of human activity. Glimpse of the old tunnel triggers sudden recollection of right back Tom “Tug” Wilson who shared a flat with Bobby Robson and Jimmy Hill when at Fulham. Later he was involved in property and returned there as director. He it was who masterminded the purchase of Craven Cottage from RBS to save it from developers; this marked the collapse of their proposed merger with QPR (a union which forever would have denied the world the El Crapico). What a plan! Fulham Park Rangers, on plastic, with fellow Marler Estates bondmen Chelsea urged to share to release even more prime land near the river. Tug used to take a last puff at his gasper, grind its butt underfoot in the tunnel, tuck a ball under his arm and cough his way onto the turf as head of phalanx.

Lights on in old Bees Store and baffled would-be customer offered advice after unsuccessfully knocking and trying the door, with no signage to enlighten/redirect her. It’s Brentford, innit?

Back to Ealing Road now and forlorn Princess Royal, windows daintily opaque, with intact “BFC Next fixture” sign high over the door: nevertheless, pub defunct. Saw virtually no graffiti here or anywhere, whether due to reverence or indifference, I’m not sure. Ended up watching at this end as I loathed perching at matches, although it provoked vile personal insult from bruised neighbours as I couldn’t help “kicking the ball” at crucial moments. Still do it in my TV dotage: when the Raya/Toney/Mbeumo combine smacked in the clincher against Wolves, I fell off the bloody chair!

Sadly, in both centuries I have narrowly missed viewing the top flight and I truly envy those acclaiming the pulsating new stadium and able to bitch on about its catering, etc. (even on the road, a Tupperware box sufficed for us, its sandwiches partitioned off from the Vi . . . ne ripened tomatoes). But younger, livelier and noisier folk are needed at LR now.

Nevertheless, fettered from moving on as I am, I felt overpowering emotional empathy towards the old ruin today as the wheel turns full circle for us both. But the site seems ready to revert to the gypsy camp once it was, when ponies grazed the orchard early last century: a gladiator, mortally wounded and begging the mercy cut, but also pleading to be remembered in his heroic prime.
Are you Fleets Johns dad ? 👍
 

Beefletch

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Kind neighbour driving to TW8 yesterday allowed me to vanquish ill health for last circuit of GP. The place had decayed for many a year, but what was left now?

En route, I regressed to first manager Bill Dodgin, and passing the 500 mark during his son’s tenure. As ‘50s Junior Bee, I acquired SA handbook plus back number which begged members not to be so beastly to sedulous recent arrival Jimmy Hill. Around then, I had to limp home from Turnham Green following a vicious tackle by Martin Lange: I was patched up by mum (she never forgave him) so I could hobble aboard a bus to the match on the morrow, hoping to sit near George Bristow, who sometimes ported his boots in a carrier bag.

Trundling along Ealing Road now, without familiar floodlights (likely dismantled and disposed of, but they would’ve improved gloomy Loftus. There again, anything would). Royal Horse Guardsman extant, billing CL screenings. Further along, ground entrance blocked by black wooden gates with “Site Acquired” signs and topped with caltrops to deter mountaineers.

Into New Road, past first pub and those houses where you could park your bike for a small fee. “Welcome to Brentford FC” still visible on roof of Braemar stand opposite. Out to peer through blocked up NR entrance: to my waning eyesight, little visible, just some rubble and faded red paint. All too desolate to rekindle match-day buzz and scurrying to claim “our” bit of crush barrier to savour Wrexham 9-0 and (Oh Joy!) Bushites 6-1. Mood uplifted by chat with friendly NR resident - fellow supporter - who once encountered J Greaves supping in pub two hours before his kick-off.

Under cover of this stand, you could pity huddled diehards on storm-lashed open ER terrace - sister to Blackpool’s Gene Kelly Stand (they’re singing in the rain). It was dicey there, too, when Brentford’s first loan signing, England Amateur Dennis Edwards, was about. During his short stay, Dennis, famed for blistering but oft wayward shooting, bagged two goals and three 65 buses.

Pond life often accompanied local clubs, but cheery banter was found with others. How could you not befriend some poor devil who’s journeyed from Workington deep in winter, or a Pilgrim sharing home-made Argy pasties at half-time during a 28,000+ div 3 fixture? Less fragrant later on was that foul ginger skunk and his Shrimper coven inviting all comers on the corner by the old timber yard (now housing), opposite the New Inn (pub still active, as is the Brook/Oak which closes Mons & Tues but opens other evenings).

Left into Brook Road, and overflying rose-ringed parakeet exemplifies life’s mutation as I squint through gaps at wilderness stretching to Ealing Road. Spent time in this buoyant stand when nomadic, pre-Wendy: a floodlit game here was an adventure, although, to my virtuous and incorrupt nature, partisan Oakies could go a little OTT.

Turning left into Braemar sparks memories of engaging ‘60s landladies. One here at The Griffin (still open), others at Pottery Arms, North Star (both demolished) and dear old Lena at The Waterman’s (flourishing).

Another stop to view forecourt and offices, but whole ground seems bereft of human activity. Glimpse of the old tunnel triggers sudden recollection of right back Tom “Tug” Wilson who shared a flat with Bobby Robson and Jimmy Hill when at Fulham. Later he was involved in property and returned there as director. He it was who masterminded the purchase of Craven Cottage from RBS to save it from developers; this marked the collapse of their proposed merger with QPR (a union which forever would have denied the world the El Crapico). What a plan! Fulham Park Rangers, on plastic, with fellow Marler Estates bondmen Chelsea urged to share to release even more prime land near the river. Tug used to take a last puff at his gasper, grind its butt underfoot in the tunnel, tuck a ball under his arm and cough his way onto the turf as head of phalanx.

Lights on in old Bees Store and baffled would-be customer offered advice after unsuccessfully knocking and trying the door, with no signage to enlighten/redirect her. It’s Brentford, innit?

Back to Ealing Road now and forlorn Princess Royal, windows daintily opaque, with intact “BFC Next fixture” sign high over the door: nevertheless, pub defunct. Saw virtually no graffiti here or anywhere, whether due to reverence or indifference, I’m not sure. Ended up watching at this end as I loathed perching at matches, although it provoked vile personal insult from bruised neighbours as I couldn’t help “kicking the ball” at crucial moments. Still do it in my TV dotage: when the Raya/Toney/Mbeumo combine smacked in the clincher against Wolves, I fell off the bloody chair!

Sadly, in both centuries I have narrowly missed viewing the top flight and I truly envy those acclaiming the pulsating new stadium and able to bitch on about its catering, etc. (even on the road, a Tupperware box sufficed for us, its sandwiches partitioned off from the Vi . . . ne ripened tomatoes). But younger, livelier and noisier folk are needed at LR now.

Nevertheless, fettered from moving on as I am, I felt overpowering emotional empathy towards the old ruin today as the wheel turns full circle for us both. But the site seems ready to revert to the gypsy camp once it was, when ponies grazed the orchard early last century: a gladiator, mortally wounded and begging the mercy cut, but also pleading to be remembered in his heroic prime.
What a great read that is ! It transported me back 60 odd years and touched so many emotions in the process. Thank you for sharing this wonderful moving account of all things Brentford FC.
If there is any justice you should be offered the opportunity to see the Bees at LR so you can give your story the happiest of endings !
Thanks again 👍🐝
 

moribee

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There is an advert on tele at moment that pulls my heart strings. It's one for post code lottery. It's so much like walking down Mafeking from the Horsey to the Griffin with the floodlights above the houses at end lighting the night sky. Beautiful and precious moments
 

nick logan

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Kind neighbour driving to TW8 yesterday allowed me to vanquish ill health for last circuit of GP. The place had decayed for many a year, but what was left now?

En route, I regressed to first manager Bill Dodgin, and passing the 500 mark during his son’s tenure. As ‘50s Junior Bee, I acquired SA handbook plus back number which begged members not to be so beastly to sedulous recent arrival Jimmy Hill. Around then, I had to limp home from Turnham Green following a vicious tackle by Martin Lange: I was patched up by mum (she never forgave him) so I could hobble aboard a bus to the match on the morrow, hoping to sit near George Bristow, who sometimes ported his boots in a carrier bag.

Trundling along Ealing Road now, without familiar floodlights (likely dismantled and disposed of, but they would’ve improved gloomy Loftus. There again, anything would). Royal Horse Guardsman extant, billing CL screenings. Further along, ground entrance blocked by black wooden gates with “Site Acquired” signs and topped with caltrops to deter mountaineers.

Into New Road, past first pub and those houses where you could park your bike for a small fee. “Welcome to Brentford FC” still visible on roof of Braemar stand opposite. Out to peer through blocked up NR entrance: to my waning eyesight, little visible, just some rubble and faded red paint. All too desolate to rekindle match-day buzz and scurrying to claim “our” bit of crush barrier to savour Wrexham 9-0 and (Oh Joy!) Bushites 6-1. Mood uplifted by chat with friendly NR resident - fellow supporter - who once encountered J Greaves supping in pub two hours before his kick-off.

Under cover of this stand, you could pity huddled diehards on storm-lashed open ER terrace - sister to Blackpool’s Gene Kelly Stand (they’re singing in the rain). It was dicey there, too, when Brentford’s first loan signing, England Amateur Dennis Edwards, was about. During his short stay, Dennis, famed for blistering but oft wayward shooting, bagged two goals and three 65 buses.

Pond life often accompanied local clubs, but cheery banter was found with others. How could you not befriend some poor devil who’s journeyed from Workington deep in winter, or a Pilgrim sharing home-made Argy pasties at half-time during a 28,000+ div 3 fixture? Less fragrant later on was that foul ginger skunk and his Shrimper coven inviting all comers on the corner by the old timber yard (now housing), opposite the New Inn (pub still active, as is the Brook/Oak which closes Mons & Tues but opens other evenings).

Left into Brook Road, and overflying rose-ringed parakeet exemplifies life’s mutation as I squint through gaps at wilderness stretching to Ealing Road. Spent time in this buoyant stand when nomadic, pre-Wendy: a floodlit game here was an adventure, although, to my virtuous and incorrupt nature, partisan Oakies could go a little OTT.

Turning left into Braemar sparks memories of engaging ‘60s landladies. One here at The Griffin (still open), others at Pottery Arms, North Star (both demolished) and dear old Lena at The Waterman’s (flourishing).

Another stop to view forecourt and offices, but whole ground seems bereft of human activity. Glimpse of the old tunnel triggers sudden recollection of right back Tom “Tug” Wilson who shared a flat with Bobby Robson and Jimmy Hill when at Fulham. Later he was involved in property and returned there as director. He it was who masterminded the purchase of Craven Cottage from RBS to save it from developers; this marked the collapse of their proposed merger with QPR (a union which forever would have denied the world the El Crapico). What a plan! Fulham Park Rangers, on plastic, with fellow Marler Estates bondmen Chelsea urged to share to release even more prime land near the river. Tug used to take a last puff at his gasper, grind its butt underfoot in the tunnel, tuck a ball under his arm and cough his way onto the turf as head of phalanx.

Lights on in old Bees Store and baffled would-be customer offered advice after unsuccessfully knocking and trying the door, with no signage to enlighten/redirect her. It’s Brentford, innit?

Back to Ealing Road now and forlorn Princess Royal, windows daintily opaque, with intact “BFC Next fixture” sign high over the door: nevertheless, pub defunct. Saw virtually no graffiti here or anywhere, whether due to reverence or indifference, I’m not sure. Ended up watching at this end as I loathed perching at matches, although it provoked vile personal insult from bruised neighbours as I couldn’t help “kicking the ball” at crucial moments. Still do it in my TV dotage: when the Raya/Toney/Mbeumo combine smacked in the clincher against Wolves, I fell off the bloody chair!

Sadly, in both centuries I have narrowly missed viewing the top flight and I truly envy those acclaiming the pulsating new stadium and able to bitch on about its catering, etc. (even on the road, a Tupperware box sufficed for us, its sandwiches partitioned off from the Vi . . . ne ripened tomatoes). But younger, livelier and noisier folk are needed at LR now.

Nevertheless, fettered from moving on as I am, I felt overpowering emotional empathy towards the old ruin today as the wheel turns full circle for us both. But the site seems ready to revert to the gypsy camp once it was, when ponies grazed the orchard early last century: a gladiator, mortally wounded and begging the mercy cut, but also pleading to be remembered in his heroic prime.
wonderful stuff , i have printed this off and its on my desk next to the framed pic of the view from seat in the Paddock.
Being Brentford is to be blessed .

Thanks for sharing
 

Indian Bee

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Kind neighbour driving to TW8 yesterday allowed me to vanquish ill health for last circuit of GP. The place had decayed for many a year, but what was left now?

En route, I regressed to first manager Bill Dodgin, and passing the 500 mark during his son’s tenure. As ‘50s Junior Bee, I acquired SA handbook plus back number which begged members not to be so beastly to sedulous recent arrival Jimmy Hill. Around then, I had to limp home from Turnham Green following a vicious tackle by Martin Lange: I was patched up by mum (she never forgave him) so I could hobble aboard a bus to the match on the morrow, hoping to sit near George Bristow, who sometimes ported his boots in a carrier bag.

Trundling along Ealing Road now, without familiar floodlights (likely dismantled and disposed of, but they would’ve improved gloomy Loftus. There again, anything would). Royal Horse Guardsman extant, billing CL screenings. Further along, ground entrance blocked by black wooden gates with “Site Acquired” signs and topped with caltrops to deter mountaineers.

Into New Road, past first pub and those houses where you could park your bike for a small fee. “Welcome to Brentford FC” still visible on roof of Braemar stand opposite. Out to peer through blocked up NR entrance: to my waning eyesight, little visible, just some rubble and faded red paint. All too desolate to rekindle match-day buzz and scurrying to claim “our” bit of crush barrier to savour Wrexham 9-0 and (Oh Joy!) Bushites 6-1. Mood uplifted by chat with friendly NR resident - fellow supporter - who once encountered J Greaves supping in pub two hours before his kick-off.

Under cover of this stand, you could pity huddled diehards on storm-lashed open ER terrace - sister to Blackpool’s Gene Kelly Stand (they’re singing in the rain). It was dicey there, too, when Brentford’s first loan signing, England Amateur Dennis Edwards, was about. During his short stay, Dennis, famed for blistering but oft wayward shooting, bagged two goals and three 65 buses.

Pond life often accompanied local clubs, but cheery banter was found with others. How could you not befriend some poor devil who’s journeyed from Workington deep in winter, or a Pilgrim sharing home-made Argy pasties at half-time during a 28,000+ div 3 fixture? Less fragrant later on was that foul ginger skunk and his Shrimper coven inviting all comers on the corner by the old timber yard (now housing), opposite the New Inn (pub still active, as is the Brook/Oak which closes Mons & Tues but opens other evenings).

Left into Brook Road, and overflying rose-ringed parakeet exemplifies life’s mutation as I squint through gaps at wilderness stretching to Ealing Road. Spent time in this buoyant stand when nomadic, pre-Wendy: a floodlit game here was an adventure, although, to my virtuous and incorrupt nature, partisan Oakies could go a little OTT.

Turning left into Braemar sparks memories of engaging ‘60s landladies. One here at The Griffin (still open), others at Pottery Arms, North Star (both demolished) and dear old Lena at The Waterman’s (flourishing).

Another stop to view forecourt and offices, but whole ground seems bereft of human activity. Glimpse of the old tunnel triggers sudden recollection of right back Tom “Tug” Wilson who shared a flat with Bobby Robson and Jimmy Hill when at Fulham. Later he was involved in property and returned there as director. He it was who masterminded the purchase of Craven Cottage from RBS to save it from developers; this marked the collapse of their proposed merger with QPR (a union which forever would have denied the world the El Crapico). What a plan! Fulham Park Rangers, on plastic, with fellow Marler Estates bondmen Chelsea urged to share to release even more prime land near the river. Tug used to take a last puff at his gasper, grind its butt underfoot in the tunnel, tuck a ball under his arm and cough his way onto the turf as head of phalanx.

Lights on in old Bees Store and baffled would-be customer offered advice after unsuccessfully knocking and trying the door, with no signage to enlighten/redirect her. It’s Brentford, innit?

Back to Ealing Road now and forlorn Princess Royal, windows daintily opaque, with intact “BFC Next fixture” sign high over the door: nevertheless, pub defunct. Saw virtually no graffiti here or anywhere, whether due to reverence or indifference, I’m not sure. Ended up watching at this end as I loathed perching at matches, although it provoked vile personal insult from bruised neighbours as I couldn’t help “kicking the ball” at crucial moments. Still do it in my TV dotage: when the Raya/Toney/Mbeumo combine smacked in the clincher against Wolves, I fell off the bloody chair!

Sadly, in both centuries I have narrowly missed viewing the top flight and I truly envy those acclaiming the pulsating new stadium and able to bitch on about its catering, etc. (even on the road, a Tupperware box sufficed for us, its sandwiches partitioned off from the Vi . . . ne ripened tomatoes). But younger, livelier and noisier folk are needed at LR now.

Nevertheless, fettered from moving on as I am, I felt overpowering emotional empathy towards the old ruin today as the wheel turns full circle for us both. But the site seems ready to revert to the gypsy camp once it was, when ponies grazed the orchard early last century: a gladiator, mortally wounded and begging the mercy cut, but also pleading to be remembered in his heroic prime.

Throughly enjoyable read during my Friday lunchtime break. Beautifully written and one of my fav posts on GPG.
 

Venerablee

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wonderful stuff , i have printed this off and its on my desk next to the framed pic of the view from seat in the Paddock.
Being Brentford is to be blessed .

Thanks for sharing
Heartfelt thanks to you and every responding aficionado.

Bye the bye - wrong thread - your mate FJ apparently intends to get on top of things and report again after Christmas. Do you think he means this Christmas?
 

nick logan

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Heartfelt thanks to you and every responding aficionado.

Bye the bye - wrong thread - your mate FJ apparently intends to get on top of things and report again after Christmas. Do you think he means this Christmas?
The Ma Kelly one day ban will hit him hard . He will be back to normal soon i am sure :sorted:
 

moribee

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There is an advert on tele at moment that pulls my heart strings. It's one for post code lottery. It's so much like walking down Mafeking from the Horsey to the Griffin with the floodlights above the houses at end lighting the night sky. Beautiful and precious moments
The irony of posting this with what happened the other night feels cruel. Sorry.
 

HantsBee

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Nothing for you to apologise for Mori..we live in a cruel world at times.
 

rebus

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I love LR but i miss GP so much.

I cant get used to sitting near the same people each game. I think the randomness of Ealing Road is what made home games great. :(
I agree. After I left the club, the last three years standing there with my mates were ace. Lots of happy memories.
 

Isleworth_Bee

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I agree. After I left the club, the last three years standing there with my mates were ace. Lots of happy memories.

Yep it is missed. Dont get me wrong the people around us are all good, starting to get the "hellos" etc from people we've never met until this season which is nice................ Bloke behind loves a "hes in" when ever the oppo break which makes me smile each time as i dont think a player has ever been "in" when hes said it. Good banter and singers but i will miss the ER NR corner for many a season to come.
 

TW3Bee

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We're lucky that the people around us are decent, and also like a bit of a sing along.
 
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Negative moron sat behind me 😠
Different person sat next to me for every game 😐
 
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