(Not Quite) The Bees' Knees

I made the most of my Saturday off by visiting Griffin Park for the Wycombe game against Brentford. Wycombe are frankly standing trepidatiously on the gallows' trapdoor now, just waiting for the snappity-necked welcome back to League Two; I got so excited by the BBC's website updates when we'd drawn level with Yeovil last week, only to blink and see the darn thing refresh to a 4-1 loss. Argh! But a free Saturday with a London game is a lucky thing indeed, so off Andy and I traipsed to the deepest south-west, wrapped up to the nines, drinking as much peatboggy tea as we could bear to keep our minds and toes from numbing.

We were perched in a rather benign corner of the knock-kneed ground, with the hardcore WWFC elite sounding sonorous, and possibly bearing thunder sheets and timpani, given the impressive noise, in a terrace underneath us; up on the seated level we just had a chap querulously crooning 'we're winning away...' and a row of flat-cappers leaning over the front rail to heckle the lino with crotchety gusto like the two old codgers in the Muppet Show.

It started badly, with both Brentford and WWFC sliding about on the filthy scrap of a pitch, which looked enjoyably 'Damned Utd'-era in muddiness levels. I haven't seen Wycombe live since the Millwall away game, and was a bit disheartened to watch them looking as confused as if they'd just been beamed in from some distant dimension and had no clue who they were or, indeed, what this leather globe was trundling at their feet. But it picked up, and whilst the Bees looked mostly like bumbling drones, fat on honey, Wycombe - keeping the ball in their attacking half for much of the time - were like buzzing, hungry workers. In particular, Keates (though he's about as big as a Subbuteo figure), GI Joe-a-like Oliver and Chris Westwood looked lively. It's a bit confusing having Kevin McLeod playing in midfield and not serenely but forcefully questioning some bonkers-rich couple about their plans for building a lighthouse-cum-windmill in the middle of Shoreditch, but I went with it. It's really only the extremely unkingly Harrold who seems like a total lubbock to me. The only excuse for his lumberish behaviour - running with his head down, generally falling over at every opportunity - WOULD be if he had a freakin' arrow in his eye.

Aaanyway, we needled at the home side until Betsy popped home a cross missed by most of the rest of the team, and kept at them until half time and for much of the second half. Then on 75 minutes, the Bees unstuck themselves from their honey-induced stupor enough to score a rather good goal, deflate both away fans and team, and see the match through to a probably fair draw. So we stay second bottom which is very likely where we'll stay until that hangman's drum comes a-rollin'....