It was Saturday evening. Bruise light streamed in through the windows. I was slumped in my favourite spot nursing a pint and contemplating the aftermath of another narrow loss.
In the Premier League the smallest mistakes are exploited with ruthless efficiency, and Brentford had yet again gifted the opposition a couple of pearlers that had been gleefully snapped up. It’s always disappointing to lose, but for a reality check all you need to do is look back a few years. Losing to Liverpool or Spurs will always be preferable to slogging away to a grim 1-1 against Barnsley or Leyton Orient.
You try telling that to the regulars down at the Doom Saloon, though. The regulars aren’t interested in history, context or nuance. The regulars are only interested in seethe. Righteous, but almost always misdirected, seethe. Every weekend they flow in through the double doors mere seconds after the full time whistle has blown.
“If we don’t sort that defence out we’ll be down by Christmas!” boomed Barry Kneejerk as he barged up to the bar to the left of me, spilling my pint. He always spills my pint.
“Alright Baz,” I said. “It’s not that bad mate, We’re 12th and there’s five or six teams in worse nick than us. Winning at home and losing away is better than just plain losing, right?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lewis,” Barry spat back. “Pinnock’s all over the place.”
“He made one mistake. He’s normally Mr Consistent. I think you might be exaggerating a little.”
Shivering Jim appeared to my right like a wraith. “What worries me,” he said, “is the lack of depth on the bench.”
My glass stopped halfway to my mouth and I looked at him askance. “You were raving about the summer signings just a few weeks back, Jim.”
“Not good enough,” he muttered.
“He’s right.” Dreary Darren snuck right up behind me without making a sound. Every single time. It’s like a special power.
“He’s right,” Darren said again. “We should’ve spent more in the summer.”
“We spent something like £90m in the summer, Darren. That’s on top of £70 odd million last year. This is Brentford we’re talking about, not Arsenal. Shit, we’re not even Palace. We’re one of the smallest in the league in terms of income.”
I could see some of the other regulars over in the corner giving me thumbs ups and laughing along, so I knew I was talking sense. One guy looked like he wanted to hug me, but I don’t think he was paying attention. His reaction aside, I knew I was in the right. I knew I was talking sense.
Double D wasn’t letting it go. “Benham’s got loads of money Lewis Holmes. Three seasons in the Premiership, where’s all the TV money gone?”
I felt myself getting exasperated, but I didn’t bite on that ‘Premiership.’ After all, it’s only been 17 years since the rebrand. “Come on mate,” I said. “You know the answer to this. Wages, running costs, player attrition. It’s not like he’s a Sheikh or anything.”
“He’s ripping us off. Him and Giles both. Dodgy as fuck.”
I couldn’t stop myself and rolled my eyes. “That sounds like a conspiracy theory to me.”
“It’s my opinion and I’m entitled to it.”
I was about to say that opinions only exist to be challenged, but before I could even begin Colin Caps Lock waded into the chat.
“THAT REF WAS A FUCKING DISGRACE! WE’RE GOING DOWN AND IT’S THE CORRUPT FA AND BENT REFS FAULT!”
I leaned back in the face of the broadside. “Why are you shouting Colin?”
“YOU JUST DON’T CARE ENOUGH LEWISLEWIS HOLMES! I’VE BEEN SUPPORTING BRENTFORD FOR 60 YEARS AND I SEE WHAT’S HAPPENING!”
“We’re 12th mate. And the ref gave them six yellows to our three.”
“IT’S MY OPINION AND I’M ENTITLED TO IT!!!”
I knew that I should drop it, there’s no reasoning with this lot when they’ve got their tails up. But the guys in the corner were still giving me loads of thumbs ups, and I cannot let it go when I’m in The Doom Saloon. It may not be a place for nuance, but by Thomas Frank’s flowing locks I will not let it become a house of lies.
“Your opinion is wrong.”
All four of them went quiet and scowled at me.
Suddenly, The Hindsight King strode up to the bar. “The problem,” he said, “is that we never should’ve sold Raya.”
The Doom Saloon erupted. Laughter, loads of thumbs ups, scowls flowing like flood water. The lad trying to dish out a hug earlier did it again. He definitely wasn’t paying attention to the conversation.
“Sire,” I said over the furore. “We had to sell Raya. We cash in on players at the right time, it’s our thing. Besides, he wanted to go. What do you suggest, should we start locking players in the boot room?”
The Hindsight King wasn’t listening. He never does. He is 20-20 after all. “Break the wage structure. Offer him £200k a week.”
Double D grinned at me over his Strongbow Dark Fruits. “Yeah, the money is definitely there.”
I bit the insides of my mouth and addressed the King instead.
“That’s how clubs get relegated though, isn’t it? Making rash decisions, standing still rather than evolving. Do we really want to end up like Sheffield United?”
The King pondered this silently.
Ken Histories abruptly raised his head from his half of mild and surveyed the room with bloodshot eyes.
“Would relegation be so bad? It was better in the old days.”
A couple of the old boys in the snug stuck thumbs ups through the hatchway. It is 1978 in there.
I couldn’t keep it in any longer. The dam collapsed in a scalding torrent. I stood up, kicked my stool back and smote every one of them with my gaze.
“It’s the same shit every week in here. We’re living in halcyon days, the best it’s been for Brentford in nearly 100 years. But all this place does is whinge around the fringes. Can’t you lot just enjoy the good times while they last? Ken’s wrong you know, it wasn’t better in the old days. It was miserable and cold and lonely. This is the big time, baby, we’re flying without wings. Did any of you imagine in your wildest dreams that our little club would be hoovering up incredible youth prospects from Liverpool? Or dropping £30m on wunderkind Brazilian strikers? We are living the dream right now. Suck up that sweet Premier League nectar while you can, friends, because it is fleeting! Before you realise it we’ll be down and you’ll be moaning about Bristol City and Rotherham the very second it happens. And you all know I’m right.”
Total silence. The exchange student who only comes in to gamble stuck his thumb up.
“It’s pointless talking sense in The Doom Saloon, I’m off to watch Strictly.”
Barry Kneejerk and Ken Histories both gave me a thumbs up.
“You’ll be back next week,” Shivering Jim said. He fixed me with his gaze and whispered: “You know you can’t resist this place.”
Bastard, I thought as I walked out.
Because he was right, of course. I would be back. I’m always there. The Doom Saloon just wouldn’t be the same without Logical Lew.
I love this , not that I understand footy , only what my son tells me about spurs, love the characters in the bar and their nick names , brilliant ! 😂😂
Great read again, mate, and even though I'm a Gooner, it resonates with me in one way or another. Sounds like you're having a serious case of 'The Premiers.' Everything's up for questioning, nothing feels fair, and there’s always someone who must be corrupt. Right now, for me, it’s City. We're at that age, aren’t we, where 30 years ago it was Man United who always seemed to have the 12th man on the pitch. From the outside, it looks like Brentford is playing it smart behind the scenes, focusing on longevity for the club, the business, and, of course, the fans."