TF Match Report Brentford 2 4 Newcastle United True Faith

And so it ends. Sort of. United still await the outcome for the FA Cup Final, at which point we shall all no whether we need to keep Thursday nights clear or not. Matthew Philpotts made a rare trip to Landan to enjoy the sunshine, the whisky and the #vibes. 

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Why do we go to the match? Not to win trophies, at least not if you’re reading this. We in black and white really don’t do that. Yet.

We do it for days like this. Not days that will lodge in the vacuous spoilt “discourse” of modern football with its endless self-indulgent discussion of clubs that have become nothing more than empty vehicles for yet more financial profit. Did someone win the league today? I really couldn’t give a flying fuck.

No, days like this are about heart, feeling, experience. Soul. Football. Life.

None of which you’ll normally find at the Gtech Community Stadium. I mean I’m all for football as community, and the away end is great – so small and configured in a single corner that only one chant can ever get going. Now there is something to learn.

But, God, otherwise it’s the most depressing soulless subbuteo stadium you’ll ever encounter. I’m still not convinced that there were any sentient home fans there. All too nice, clean, tidy. Nothing to make the heart stir.

We had to do that ourselves. And for that there’s nothing quite like a sunny end-of-season afternoon in a genteel non-footballing suburb of London. From the pre-match roast with an old time TF compadre, via a seat next to Stormin Norman, to the post-match pint(s) with new friend Swervy Steve, this was football at its best. Oh and the match on the pitch helped too.

Step forward one man. Joelinton. He was immense. A footballing colossus, not of lazy cliche but of real flesh. Stronger, faster, more telescopic of limb than anyone else in stripes, whether black and white or red and white. He even allowed himself a reprise of Joelinton 1.0 – the Rochdale version – after Isak’s astonishing work, missing what looked like the most open of open goals when it still felt like it might matter.

Never mind. After a false start mercifully saved by the wonders of VAR (more later), we were irrepressible in the first half. Bruno chipped to the far post for Cliff Barnes to nod in. Murphy (still crap, sorry) was presented with easiest of chances, and then Sir Alex finished with his customary aplomb to make it three.

Europe again, ole, ole! Europe again, ole ole! Even we couldn’t fuck this up.

Until we threatened to do just that. Flip flops on after half time, 3-0 became 3-1, became 3-2. Norman assured me this would only bring a fourth as Brentford pressed on. He was right; I was wrong.

Quite how VAR overruled the penalty, I’ve no idea. Especially without even looking at the monitor. Apparently contact was in some imaginary zone a nanocentimetre outside a made-up line above the penalty box. Please bin this shite. NOW.

Fortunately, we had learned from Fab’s piss poor effort ten minutes earlier, and Alex stepped up instead from the subsequent free kick. Shot, rebound, Bruno, 4-2. And breathe.

From there, it was a testimonial for those surely departing. We longed for a final ooh-aah Callum Wilson goal, but contented ourselves with a throw in instead. If Dummett scored, we were on the pitch. He didn’t; we weren’t.

All that was left was the amateur Chippendales display at full time. Enough to make the knees tremble and not only Ossie’s. Whatever else he’s been doing, Krafth’s work (finally!) in the gym has certainly paid off. He can find a lucrative line of work outside football in one of Sweden’s most famous 70s export markets.

Tripps passed his shirt carefully into the front row. Suggestive. Bruno waved. Not once, but repeatedly. Maybe we’ve serenaded his dad in the away end for the last time. Certainly his desperation to score suggested a farewell. Let’s see. Maybe he was just keeping his options open.

And so the season that would never end has finally ended, precisely 10 years since that opening Tonali goal against Villa, back when everything seemed possible. We might not have won anything (spoiler: we don’t), but bloody hell, there have been moments.

Let’s keep it to two. Villa away – so utterly, gloriously unexpected and easy. A long pointless midweek trip turned into a “were you there?” experience And Man Utd in the League Cup – 8,000 in Old Trafford, 17 aged reserve full backs on the pitch and the most joyous 90 minutes of my life.

Why do we go to the match? Because sometimes it’s shit. Sometimes it’s just nothing. And now and again, it’s pure unadulterated joy. An escape from life. A memory for life. With no other purpose.

Today was one of those days. And I loved it.

Matthew Philpotts