Another Premier League season in the bag. The final two games ## groaned to a close ## played ## before we all naff off to the World Cup; where the most powerful lunatic on earth and the lickspittle head of FIFA absolutely will not stomp a mudhole in our beloved sport, right? Right?
But I’m not here to talk about the World Cup today. (Probably won’t even be watching it, if I’m honest). I’m here today to do something that does not come easily to me. I’m going to admit I that I got a few things wrong.
One or two of my old teachers are out there somewhere, and they just felt a deep disturbance in the force. Yes, Gobshite Holmes is going to do it: he’s going to hold his hands up and admit, unequivocally, that he was wrong.
Brentford fans will remember this season as one of great change. Probably the most tumultuous in a decade, easily the most churn we’ve seen in the Premier League era. And I, in my infinite wisdom, spent most of last summer dismissing every one of those changes until the very moment they slapped me upside the head.
I have a lot of fun opining on all things Brentford and, I’m petty good at spotting patterns, noticing little details and zoning in on the minutia. I’d make a great pundit, except I love the sound of my own voice so much that no director could shackle me – the post match would be three hours long and I’d keep talking through every single ad break.
The point here is, when last summer rolled around, I thought I could see the matrix. After ten years watching owner Matthew Benham and his Jedi DoF1 Phil Giles work their magic, I thought I could safely predict the waters the good ship Brentford was going to chart.
And I was swiftly humbled.
I think Bryan Mbeumo and Thomas Frank leaving were both guaranteed. Even the most trenchant Brentford fan saw those departures coming, right? Mark Flekken’s departure blindsided me a little (it’s a shame so many people leave him out of this conversation), but it was Christian Norgaard leaving that really took my legs out from under me.
I remember getting a flurry of text messages from Arsenal supporting pals. All variations of the same message: “Apparently we’re signing your captain. Is there a firesale at Brentford?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I replied confidently. “We won’t sell our captain after the manager’s left. Oh, and you don’t know what ‘firesale’ means.”
About four hours later, the deal was done. My face? Oh yeah, egg all over it, mate.
I won’t waste too many words on Yoane Wissa, suffice to say Thomas must’ve ‘lost’ the no dickheads policy while he was negotiating with Spurs.
And The Great Brentford Switcheroo persisted throughout the summer.
Those same Arsenal supporting pals: “Lew, you’re not really appointing your set piece coach as manager, are you?”
“Don’t be daft, of course not.”
Even on a summer Beesotted appearance, where I was very much preaching to the choir, I ruled the notion out, saying something like: ”We do like to promote from within, yes, but it’s the Premier League and the stakes are higher. I think we’ll get that Bodo Glimt guy in.”
And we all know what happened.
Like most football fans, I never used to like admitting when I was wrong. Something about the fine margins, the competitiveness, the tribalism – none of us enjoy holding our hands up.
A couple of years ago though, I was diagnosed as neurodivergent. This kicked off a period of self-reflection, during which I realised that not backing down was really quite unhealthy. I’m rather more enlightened these days; I realise that occasionally fessing up to getting it wrong is good for one’s soul.
So with my full chest, I’d like to apologise to Keith Andrews and the higher ups for even doubting them. I was wrong. I. Was. Wrong. It was a stroke of genius and I will never fall back on lazy, safe assertions again. Oh, and Keith, I owe you a pint of Guinness seeing all that Irish stuff you feeed the boys!.
But I wasn’t the only one. Every highly paid pundit and every so-called ITK journalist – not to mention legions of chin stroking armchair experts – had the Bees down for a relegation battle following the summer of change.
So if I’m holding my hands up, you can bet I’m going to take a few names and cash a few cheques while I’m at it. This is my mea culpa, where are the confessions from all the rest of them? I’m between jobs at the moment, I’ll quite easily go on a quest across the land, righting some wrongs in the name of BFC. I could start at Sky, it’s only down the road, after all. Bring Neville and Carragher to me!
Because people didn’t just get Brentford and Keith Andrews a little bit wrong. They got them spectacularly wrong. This season has been one of the very best in the club’s history. We didn’t just confound expectations, we defied them.
One of the things I really liked early on about Andrews was a touch of combativeness that Thomas Frank didn’t have. In only his second or third post match interview, he talked about how happy he was that “we made it really difficult for [the opposition] out there.” It was a refrain he returned to time and again over the course of the season, and I think it jibes really well with the plucky underdog tag that our club wears so well.
Of course, there’s no point talking a good game if you can’t back it up. Fortunately for all of us, Keith can more than back it up. Players like Yehor Yarmoliuk and Keane Lewis-Potter have become all action battlers; tenacious in defence, swashbuckling in attack. Collins, Kelleher and van den Berg, the bedrock at the back, have developed an amazing understanding that will only improve. Matti Jensen has finally ascended to the assured, confident player most of us knew he could be. Michael Kayode and Dango Ouattara wreak havoc down the right. Then there’s our spearhead.
Brentford’s striker succession plan is the envy of the entire Premier League, but we broke the mould with Igor Thiago.
For all my pre-season doubts, I had no fear when it came to Igor. I could tell he’d be good. I didn’t know he’d be as brilliant, as compelling as he turned out to be. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an effervescent character as him before. Even when things weren’t going to plan, he’d have a massive great grin on his face. His goal celebrations, that joyous “Vamos!”, his relationship with Keith – it’s been pure fairytale stuff, culminating in a thoroughly deserved call up for Brazil. In a season littered with high points, Igor’s journey is an absolute peach.
He’s going to be in demand this summer, but that fresh new contract means it’s going to take an eye-watering offer to even get Phil Giles to pick up the phone. I’d like to hope that Bees’ fans will see even more from Igor Thiago next season.
Our last home game of the season against Crystal Palacedampended a few squibs but European football was still very much up for grabs (provided Bournemouth, Brighton, Spurs actually [yuk] did what was needed )but the gap isn’t quite as comfortable as it might have been. There’s a bit of frustration on social media about the recent run of draws, but let’s be honest we need to look at the season as a whole and grin.
We’ve scalped elite clubs in Liverpool and Manchester United; rattled the champions elect in that thrilling draw (David Raya’s panic at the late bombardment will live long in the memory). We’ve edged out thrillers at Everton and Burnley; done the double over grand old clubs like Newcastle and Aston Villa, got our revenge against West Ham after that cup match, and are on course to finish above both sets of neighbours down the road.
However things pan out over the next few weeks, we’re on for a doozy of a finish to a doozy of a season. We’re in rude health and in a great place to kick onto even bigger and better things next season. I’ve never been happier to admit I got it wrong. Up the Bees!
Lewis Holmes writes about Brentford, and so much more, on his Substack:
https://theledgebeyondtheedge.substack.com/