Brentford Win The KelleHen den Berg Derby

Regular Beesotted contributor, Nemone Sariman, looks back on a night to remember at The Gtech as Brentford beat Liverpool.

I am one of those irritating people who call every match a derby, depending on who is playing and what their old clubs were. For instance, Nottingham Forest versus Burnley would be the Sean Dyche Derby, and Tottenham Hotspur versus Everton would be the Richarlison Derby – you get the picture. I was rather pleased with myself for inventing such a thing, until the husband pointed out that they’d been doing it on TalkSport for ages. 

So it turns out that I did not, in fact, invent such a thing.

Anyway, this disappointment didn’t deter me from dreaming up a suitably snappy name for Brentford versus Liverpool. And so the KelleHen den Berg Derby was born. 

The drama started to unfold long before any of the on-field chaos when, regretfully, I fell ill last-minute and was unable to attend. Can one report upon a match that one didn’t attend? Maybe not? That said, VAR make all sorts of decisions despite being nowhere near said stadium at the time of said incident, and seemingly, not seeing what we see, not even with the benefit of slow-motion and rewind. And it seems to work out fine for them, right? Ahem.

I am a teacher, so I was quite used to having fun ruined by the dreaded teacher-lurgy which, mysteriously, strikes us down during the school holidays yet spares us during term time. But this, of all days? However, Sky’s decision this season to televise 215 matches served me well, as I was able to watch from home and commentate* with a cup of tea and a cat on my lap. 

*Send random remarks via WhatsApp to other people also watching. 

No, it’s not the same character-building test as standing knee-deep in mud on a rainy February night in [insert name of some obscure rural outpost up North]. But football with tea and cats is better than football without, so I was happy to take it. 

I was lucky enough to have co-commentators, also watching remotely, as follows: 

1. My Manchester United Friend, reporting from the Red Devils heartland that is Ealing. He likes Brentford because we gave them Bryan Mbeumo (let’s face it, they need him more than we do). And he hates Liverpool, so clearly he wanted us to win.
2. My Arsenal Friend, reporting from Mitcham. She likes Brentford because our win over Manchester City at the Etihad gave The Gunners the coveted Christmas Number 1 Spot a few years back, so she also wanted us to win. 
3. My Bees Friend Trapped in a Manchester United Family, usually resident in Brentford but, this time, reporting from, erm, Liverpool. Presumably her hosts had imagined a very different outcome when they invited her to watch the game at their place. (Spoiler alert: it didn’t work out for them.)

Incidentally, BFTiaMUF’s match day hosts have football-mad teenage sons so, upon arrival, they offered her the choice of a Liverpool bedroom or a Manchester City bedroom. I comforted her with the cheering thought that at least it wasn’t Chelsea or Leeds United, but then being offered a Liverpool bedroom or a Manchester City bedroom is still akin to being asked whether you’d like your left leg bitten off by a shark or your right leg bitten off by a crocodile.

MUF, immediately after Ouattara’s goal: “GET INNNNN!”

Oh my, this felt good. It was especially good that it came just after a long throw, something for which Brentford are much-maligned these days, although I still don’t understand why. If they work, why not use them?

1-0 up, yet I couldn’t relax. I have too many memories of scoring first and then conceding – or worse, losing outright – with television commentators never failing to remind us of the points we’ve thrown away from lost leads. 1-0 was better than 0-1, but not quite enough to feel safe.

Then came the Schade goal, an absolute cracker which had echoes of his goal against Chelsea. We (re)invented the long throw; could the long assist be the next trend that we start?

BFTiaMUF: “Are you watching?”

Oh yes. Trust me, this game has my full attention.

Kerkez then spoiled the party by scoring in the fifth minute of a three-minute period of stoppage time. Maths are, admittedly, not my strong point, but the numbers just aren’t numbering, and nothing I can do seems to make them do so. It seems I am not alone here. 

Nothing deflates an atmosphere quite like conceding just before half-time, so we just had to hope that we had enough juice in the tank to hold on. 

Everyone, when the half time ref swap was announced: “???”

BFTiaMUF, after the Thiago penalty: “3-1!!!!” 

Dare I say it but … did Ouattara over-egg the pudding when trying to win that one? However, in true football fan fashion, I shall happily accept it in our favour, whilst also reserving the right to be absolutely incensed if an opponent did it to us. 

AF, after the Salah goal: “Booooo!” Well, quite. I couldn’t have put it better myself. 

MUF, at 88 minutes: “Do Not.” “Stuff This Up.” [Yes, those words did come in two separate messages, which somehow added to the overall sense of foreboding and unease.]

AF, when added time was announced: “Seven minutes? What a farce!”

We then entered some sort of parallel universe in which the seven minutes weren’t actually seven minutes at all, but more like ten. Absolutely nobody understood this. But, luckily, we took the advice of MUF (the piece sent across two separate messages). We did not stuff it up.

At the final whistle (which did come … eventually …) I felt the stress drain from my body like a demonic spirit being exorcised, and finally my co-commentators and I could breathe. BFTiaMUF went on to have a surprisingly good night’s sleep in the Liverpool bedroom, even with Mo Salah’s face beaming down at her from every wall. I don’t suppose he was quite so happy on the bus home, but hey ho.

It’s now the morning after that glorious evening and, despite the hellish sleep due to the adrenaline and flu medication coursing through me for much of the night, I am elated. 

I wish I could bottle this feeling. And, if I did, I would call it Essence of KelleHen den Berg. 

Nemone Sariman