When the news broke that Premiership matches are to be taken abroad I must admit I couldn't help but feel a tad smug.
The disgustingly rich and overhyped Premieship is about to get even more disgustingly rich and overhyped, and as I can safely say this plan is never going to affect Brentford I'm not going to waste too much time worrying about it.
No serious money has ever filtered down to help smaller, struggling clubs thus far and the chance of that changing in the near future is about as likely as Dwayne Chambers winning the BBC Sports Personality of the Year. So while this money-mad scheme is clearly awful, as a fan of a financially destitute club, I couldn't help but find the wailing and gnashing of teeth from a whole host of Premiership fans (many of whom I'd wager barely go and watch their team anyway) hilarious.
Unfortunately, my smugness at being a salt of the earth lower league fan was quickly put into harsh perspective. Trips to Underhill tend to do that, despite Brentford picking up another excellent three points on the road.
With the counterfeit Bees seemingly not used to attracting a crowd, Barnet displayed their non-league credentials expertly. The decision was made to only opening two away turnstiles, meaning a number of the thousand-strong travelling support missed a decent chunk of Tuesday night's game. Once inside things didn't get much better with the view from the terrace being about as good as the view I had from the car park.
Brentford doing well makes life tough for the facetious and sarcastic blogger.
But fortunately for times like these there is always the match day programme to fall back on, and the programme for our cracking win over Chesterfield was like manna from heaven.
The endlessly amusing “Getting to Know You” section was filled with the usual lunacy. It turns out that if Craig Pead could be an animal he would be “a cross between a bear, a lion and a shark.” As if that monstrous distortion of biology isn’t ridiculous enough, he then goes on to reveal his biggest fear is sharks. Get your head round that one Dr Freud.
Peado also reveals he once met Justin Timberlake, but unfortunately with no further elaboration the question of under what circumstances this unlikely meeting took place is left hanging frustratingly in the air.
Elsewhere in the programme, it’s all about the National Year of Reading, which Brentford, along with a clutch of Premiership stars, are supporting.
John Terry, don’t you know, is a "reading champion".
Those nasty tabloids got it wrong. The England skipper doesn’t spend his spare time cavorting with strippers and urinating on nightclub floors. Instead, he loves nothing more than settling down with the latest Paul Auster or a classic bit of Dickens.
Ryan Giggs, David James and Brentford’s very own Ryan Peters have also revealed themselves to be bookworms.
Peters says he reads whenever he has “spare time, which isn’t a great deal in this profession”. (Would it be too cruel to suggest Ryan could spend those extra hours he gains from sitting on the bench or in the stands each Saturday to sneak in an extra chapter or two?)
He loves An Inspector Calls, Of Mice and Men and, er, Rio Ferdinand’s autobiography and says his favourite books to read are “Shakespearian plays”.
Imagine the bus journey up to Accrington.
“Oi, Ryan,” shouts Pooley, “Come and play cards with the lads.”
“Sorry, Glenn,” retorts Ryan, a copy of the Complete Works on his lap, “I’m half way through The Two Gentleman of Verona and I want to finish it by the time we reach the ground.”
Ryan’s debut appearance on Newsnight Review, arguing about the latest RSC production of Hamlet with Germaine Greer and Mark Kermode, is surely only weeks away.
Brentford doing well makes life tough for the facetious and sarcastic blogger.
But fortunately for times like these there is always the match day programme to fall back on, and the programme for our cracking win over Chesterfield was like manna from heaven.
The endlessly amusing “Getting to Know You” section was filled with the usual lunacy. It turns out that if Craig Pead could be an animal he would be “a cross between a bear, a lion and a shark.” As if that monstrous distortion of biology isn’t ridiculous enough, he then goes on to reveal his biggest fear is sharks. Get your head round that one Dr Freud.
Peado also reveals he once met Justin Timberlake, but unfortunately with no further elaboration the question of under what circumstances this unlikely meeting took place is left hanging frustratingly in the air.
Elsewhere in the programme, it’s all about the National Year of Reading, which Brentford, along with a clutch of Premiership stars, are supporting.
John Terry, don’t you know, is a "reading champion".
Those nasty tabloids got it wrong. The England skipper doesn’t spend his spare time cavorting with strippers and urinating on nightclub floors. Instead, he loves nothing more than settling down with the latest Paul Auster or a classic bit of Dickens.
Ryan Giggs, David James and Brentford’s very own Ryan Peters have also revealed themselves to be bookworms.
Peters says he reads whenever he has “spare time, which isn’t a great deal in this profession”. (Would it be too cruel to suggest Ryan could spend those extra hours he gains from sitting on the bench or in the stands each Saturday to sneak in an extra chapter or two?)
He loves An Inspector Calls, Of Mice and Men and, er, Rio Ferdinand’s autobiography and says his favourite books to read are “Shakespearian plays”.
Imagine the bus journey up to Accrington.
“Oi, Ryan,” shouts Pooley, “Come and play cards with the lads.”
“Sorry, Glenn,” retorts Ryan, a copy of the Complete Works on his lap, “I’m half way through The Two Gentleman of Verona and I want to finish it by the time we reach the ground.”
Ryan’s debut appearance on Newsnight Review, arguing about the latest RSC production of Hamlet with Germaine Greer and Mark Kermode, is surely only weeks away.
A week ago I was listening to the God-awful 606 programme on 5Live.
It was the night Engerland were humiliated by Croatia. As yet another supporter droned on witlessly about foreigners in the game and a lack of the bulldog spirit, I was quickly losing the will to live. But then my ears were pricked...
"Look, I'm a Brentford fan."
Not words you hear every day on a national radio station.
"I pay £17 a week, but at least I know I'm going to be watching rubbish."
My thoughts entirely, sir.
Supporting Brentford is enough of a drain, without having to follow another bunch of useless tossers as well, particularly such a ridiculously vain, inept and greedy bunch as the England team.
In contrast I can take one crumb of comfort from following the Bees this season - I can relax safe in the knowledge that none of current set of Brentford players are being set up for life by their sorry excuses for football careers.
No, they will have to struggle long and hard to make ends meet once they hang up their boots, all due their collective lack of guts, determination or skill. If there was any justice at all they will all end their days in a Dickensian poor house, with nothing but rags for clothes and gruell for sustenance.
As you may have noticed I'm feeling unusually bitter this week. Mainly because I spent my Saturday afternoon watching Brentford capitulate, like an Italian soldier, at London Road.
Occassionally television videprinters spell out an outlandish scoreline just to make sure everyone is clear and there can be no mistake.
I wasn't there to witness Brentford's result against Peterborough roll in on the TV so I didn't get to see the seven goals scored by the Posh spelled out for me.
No, I had the honour of watching the debacle in glorious 3D technicolour instead.
I'll resist pointlessly poring over the gorey details. Brentford are, after all, just a football team, not a dead Princess in a Paris tunnel. But when the best thing you can say about your day was that the tea was very nice, you know you are in trouble.
We are now out of the cup too, which is wonderful news. It's not as if we need the money...
Something I've noticed about the famous commentator (and occassional football manager) Terry Butcher, apart from the fact he has the tactical acumen of a lobotomised Steve McLaren, is his worrying tendency to bring whatever he is talking about round to the subject of alcohol.
In pre-season he told a press conference his favourite formation was 4-4-2 "four bottles of red, 4 bottles of white and a couple of bottles of brandy" and in his "personal message to the fans" on the club's website this week he witters on about how we all needed a drink after the Posh game.
Mr Butcher, I understand on account of your apparent predeliction for boozing, you may not be in a fit state to get behind the wheel of a car at this precise moment, so, I'll cut you a deal. I'm happy to pay for a taxi to take you anywhere you wish, on the one condition that it is many miles away from Brentford.
Once in blue moon a Channel Four comedy series raises a laugh or a politician speaks a modicum of sense. And on rare, rare occasions Brentford put in the kind of performance that raises hope and expectation.
And that is exactly what happened on Saturday when the Bees picked up a creditable draw away to "League One giants" Luton Town in the FA Cup.
Luton has a bizzare effect on Brentford fans. Despite what I said last week about a trip to Luton being about as appealing as a weekend in Basra, Bees fans always flock to Kenilworth Road like pilgrims heading to Lourdes.
On the face of it Kenilworth Road is one of the most unpleasant grounds to watch football in. It's like a museum that aims to "bring history to life" by recreating the medieval experience, complete with "authentic" smells.
Of course, football fans revel in these kind of surroundings and the away end's low roof and close proximity of the home fans means a decent atmosphere is usually created.
Around 800 fans travelled and made an absolute racket for most of the match.
Much of the noise generated was in response to stewards' protracted efforts to make 100 or so fans sit down. There can't be many jobs as demoralising as being a football steward. Gary Glitter is more popular with the general public than these guys (well, how many catchy glam rock anthems has a football steward ever written?).
Imagine their working day: The boss orders them to tell a bunch of beered-up football fans that they must take their seats. Said fans refuse, whilst loudly suggesting the stewards' recreational habits are somewhat, ahem, self-orientated. The fans only comply when the cops turn up, but then to jump to their feet at every opportunity, calling the hapless crowd controllers every name under the sun for good measure.
As funny as the whole 'stand up-sit down charade' was, I have to confess that my laughter was tempered slighty. It hard not to feel feel a little sorry for these poor bastards.
Elsewhere, I was happy to see ex-Bee Kevin Rapley on the score sheet for Barrow Town, to earn the non-leaguers a draw against Bournemouth .
Rapley was a mid-90s favourite of mine, but is now a part-time player and driving instructor.
Some wags, Fulham or QPR fans maybe, might say he's gone up in the world but I think it's a shame when good players drop out of the league. Although, I'm sure there are a few stewards in the Luton area who would think he hasn't had such a bad deal.
Take sports minister Gerry Sutcliffe's comments about John Terry’s wages, or listen to the many complaints about astronomical ticket prices or how the influx of foreign players is stifling English talent.
For me the foreign invasion has been a disappointment, but it’s got nothing to do with the national side.
What I yearn for is the day when a foreign player can once again be welcomed to these shores with a photo shoot in which he is asked to hold a prop that denotes his country of origin.
Take Benito Carbone for example. When he arrived at Sheffield Wednesday, he was asked to pose for pictures holding up a pizza. Surely everything that is ridiculous and wonderful about football can be summed up in moments as absurd as this?
Carbone’s facial expression, a mixture of bewilderment and determination not to be a spoilsport, was a joy to behold and it seems a strange irony that as the number of foreign players has shot up, the comedy photo shoot has died out.
Things didn’t quite go to plan for Carbone, despite his magnificent photographic introduction to this country.
He secured a dream, £20,000-a-week, move to Bradford City (“As I satta by Lake Como I always dreamt one day, I would runna outa atta Valley Parade, si, Deano Windass is my hero, si"”). Unfortunately Benni then became a symbol of Bradford’s ‘chase the Premiership dream’ folly, and the club now find themselves millions in debt, having fallen into the fourth division, getting beaten by Brentford.
How cruel life can be…
The win over Bradford put the Bees on a little bit of a roll which was unfortunately brought to an abrupt end by Macclesfield on Tuesday night.
Up at Bradford Glenn Poole continuined his one man goal of the season competition. Terry Butcher admitted he bought Poole on the strength of the stats he read on the internet and while it is disturbing to think our new gaffer applies the same transfer policy I used to utilise in Championship Manager, he may have come up trumps in this case.
Poole has got the best left foot since Daniel Day Lewis and despite my initial reservations, the former Gray’s player is starting to get into the swing of things and could be a very important player for us this season.
My next instalment of inconsequential bluster (I’ll get the insult in before you do, dear reader) will be after a trip to Luton for our FA cup tie.
With the best will in the world, the prospect of spending a day in Luton is unlikely to be anyone’s idea of fun, but at least it will give me a chance to pull out all the magic of the cup clichés.
One things for sure, form is sure to go straight out of the window and there will be some names still in a hat (That's two things -Ed) , but will the Bees be left to concentrate on the league or will the lads be up for the cup? See I’m doing it already…
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