MATCH REPORT: BRENTFORD 4-2 BRIGHTON

Another miserable London away day, another gut punch to European ambitions, and another hefty serving of “what exactly are we trying to do here?” from the men in University Gold (yellow to you and me). Four-two may even have flattered Albion, if we’re honest.

It started as it was meant to go on. Nine minutes in, Lewis-Potter split Albion’s defence with a through ball that my mum could’ve spotted, and she was home in Goring. Brian Mbeumo, left with enough space to build a small housing development, powered away from Albion’s central defenders to thunder the opener past Verbruggen. Defence? What’s that? Never heard of it.

Arguably, Mbeumo should have been putting Brentford two up. Only a smart save from Bart Verbruggen had kept the Albion from falling behind even earlier. The warning signs had not been heeded.

They say stoppage is a great time to score, and we did, finding an equaliser right on half-time, Danny Welbeck nodding in Wieffer’s cross like a man who had seen what was coming in the second half and thought “I’d better get mine now.”

This was Dat Guy’s ninth Premier League goal of the season, which equals his best-ever seasons. A notable silver lining to the darkening skies.

Then came the second half near-total loss of form that’s becoming all too familiar. Three minutes in, Mbeumo again. Ball in from Damsgaard, tidy little lay-off from Wissa, and Mbeumo’s shot took a nick off Dunk’s chest. 2-1. Albion’s defensive shape at this point resembled a panicked group of strangers who’d never seen a tactical whiteboard or iPad in their lives.

Not content with this early second-half capitulation, Albion then decided to really push the boat out. Another slick Brentford move, Mbeumo turning provider this time, and Wissa’s shot deflecting in off poor Lewis Dunk. Three-one. Albion’s fans already checking the National Rail app for earlier trains home.

Oh, but we weren’t done with the self-destruction. Joao Pedro – who it feels like he’s been walking a disciplinary tightrope for a while now – decided to lash out at Nathan Collins off the ball. Straight red. Perfect. Just what we needed when chasing the game.

The returning Kaoru Mitoma, introduced from the bench, did manage to provide a glimmer of hope, finishing delicately from Hinshelwood’s pass to make it 3-2. Cue five minutes of “maybe, just maybe”, but we all know it’s the hope that kills you.

But just as the flicker of belief began to burn, it was snuffed out in true Cluedo fashion: it was Christian Nørgaard who did it, with the header, in the box. A dagger to the heart of any late comeback dreams, leaving Albion fans slumped in the drawing room of despair once more.

By this point, the away end had already serenaded Hürzeler with chants of “you don’t know what you’re doing” after he hauled off Welbeck and Baleba for Ayari and Gomez. The German will point to an improvement after the changes, but the growing disconnect between dugout and terrace is starting to feel like a real issue.

To cap off a horrible afternoon in west London, Jan Paul Van Hecke exited on a stretcher after a nasty clash of heads with Konak, needing oxygen and adding 10 more minutes to an already interminable afternoon. Thankfully, suggestions are that the best-looking Dutchman we know should be OK, and we’ll be delighted when that is confirmed.

So, five games without a win now. One point from twelve. A £200 million summer spend that some are suggesting is looking increasingly like someone went mad with a company credit card. The European dream seems to be fading faster than our tactical identity.

Elder statesman Danny Welbeck hit the nail on the head afterwards: “We made our bed and we have to lie in it. It’s not good enough. We need to play far more collectively. Fight for each other more.”

He’s right. Recently, we’ve often looked like eleven individuals who met in the car park rather than a Premier League team with a plan. Tenth in the table and, on this evidence, exactly where we deserve to be. Situationism? More like a tactical disasterclass.

Somewhere in west London, Thomas Frank and his Brentford double-act of Mbeumo and Wissa (34 goals between them) must be having a good laugh at our expense. They look like what we want to be, perhaps what we used to be – a well-drilled unit with a clear identity and purpose.

European qualification now feels about as likely as finding a train running on time back to Brighton.

The Hürzeler experiment continues, but the honeymoon period is well and truly over.

Incredibly, the season isn’t quite dead yet. We’re still technically one of a handful of sides who could nab eighth spot and with it that sweet, sweet Europa Conference League ticket to obscure corners of the continent.

Does it seem wildly improbable? Of course it bloody does. But then again, so was that six-game winning streak we put together after getting embarrassed at Forest.

This club has a knack for defying logic when you least expect it – usually right after we’ve written them off completely. Just when you think your emotional investment is safe, they drag us back in with a glimmer of hope that’s just substantial enough to be dangerous.

Graham Potter – under pressure already, of course – comes to the Amex next week for what feels like the Horrible Out of Form Derby. What better incentive could we have to turn the corner?

Images courtesy of Reuters