The way of Brentford

Being an account of a visit made by two men, known henceforth as C.Elseware and TN-23, to the borough of Brentford in the Summer of the year nineteen ninety six.

Travelling, as we were, from the South Coast of this Fair Isle, we made an early start. Packing only those things we deemed essential; Mirrorshades, credit cards and two of the four class «B» books, "East" & "The Triangle", after having decided that the class «AB» "Ultimate Truths" was inappropriate for the occasion.

We arrived by rail. Tension ran high as we pulled into Brentford station. After quitting the train we spent a few moments in silent wonder before exploring.

We headed South into town through the Butts Estate. Quite frankly I was surprised that the place existed. We photographed some of the locals working on their allotments, but to this they took loud exception, so we hurried on into town.

The magistrates court stands alone, surrounded by nothing but idyllic carpark. A sign on the back told us to use the front entrance. A sign on the front told us to use the backdoor. Such a prank has the hallmarks of certain well-documented local ne'er-do-wells.

We walked up the High Street receiving furtive looks from the locals. It was unclear how bad an impression we were making until I stopped at a greengrocers, with the intention of buying some sprouts to mail to our Irish friends at Sproutlore. The grocers eyes widened a moment, before he all but chased me out of the shop, muttering "t'aint the sprout season, t'aint the sprout season." We departed, with much haste.

We basked in the warm Brentonian Summer as we walked down the High Street, past the flat blocks then paused to examine the Battle of Brentford monument:

I guess that V's are easier to carve than U's.

Turning the corner into Sprite Street we walked passed "The Four Horsemen" - I had heard rumours that it didn't really exist, at least, not under that name. But here it was in the flesh, or rather the brick. We took some photos then decided to keep going.

Up Mafeking Avenue and onto the Ealing road, we passed a public house who's name we choose not to reveal, but may be familiar to some people reading this account. The sign outside promised "HOT & COLD FOOD". Being somewhat peckish TN-23 and I entered and asked what food they did serve. The barman glared at us with his good eye and coldly informed me "We don't serve food here." adding something almost inaudible about "the damn brewery" and their "trendy signs". As with the grocers, TN-23 suggested a hasty departure was in order. While I paused to take a couple of photos of the place, an old man doddered out and informed us of exactly what happend to the last two "Minions of the Brewery" (as he insisted on calling us), who hung around taking photos and measuring things. I tried to explain what we were doing, but he was having none of it and set his terrier on me. At this point I left, quite quickly, preferring my ankles in an unchewed state.

Fleeing around the corner we were stopped in our tracks by the awesome wonder that is contained in Brentford Football ground. Namely the Brentford Pyramid! Words are hardly enough to describe the sheer bulk and majesty, but we only managed to get one photo before the terrier came barking around the corner after us.

Heading back towards the station, we passed a sign pointing us towards the Grand Union Junction Canal! Naturally, we had to go. The canal is not drained, this is one of the few ways in which Rankin's Brentford differs with the real one. The lockkeepers hut is there and it has been converted (completely).

We had about half an hour until our train arrived. At this suprisingly significant time we decided to quickly visit the Brentford Memorial Library. It was pretty unexciting really but the seal in the mosaic in the foyer was a bit of a shock - 3 Scimitars pointing for West to East - The significance of this should be obvious to anyone with one whit of occult knowledge.

As we were leaving the library we saw two men in scruffy suits sitting on the bench outside. We were about to take a photo when they charged us and tried to wrestle the camera out of TN-23's hands. Shouting and, like the old man, accusing us of being "Minions of the Brewery", whatever that means. Rather annoyingly, you can't see them in the photo. Even more annoyingly, they managed to break TN-23's camera, but we retrieved most of the film intact.

We managed to catch our train without further incident.


Our advice - leave Brentford to the Brentonians. It is their priviledge and curse, and theirs alone.