After a heated argument, it’s always a good idea to let things settle before trying to resolve any outstanding issues. When you’re emotional, you might end up saying something you’ll later regret. Best not to send that retaliatory email until the morning, whilst feelings are still running high. Well, it’s fully six hours since the final whistle at the Vitality and I’m sufficiently cooled down to revisit the game. At least I think I am.

Let’s begin by acknowledging there was more at stake for Bournemouth today than for us. We had won the last four games on the bounce, lost only one of the last ten, and were looking at entering the automatic promotion places, albeit temporarily, with a draw. An away defeat, whilst clearly not part of the plan, wouldn’t by any measure de-rail our season’s ambitions.

The same cannot be said for Bournemouth, who had lost their previous two, surrendering sixth spot, the final play-off place, to Cardiff in the process. With six league defeats in the last nine games, their recent dip in form had cost Jason Tindall his job, leading to a period of limbo in which his assistant, Jonathan Woodgate, had steadied the ship, amidst unsettling rumours swirling of a fanciful and high-profile, va-va-voom appointment in the wings. In the end Woodgate, and not Thierry Henry, was installed until the end of the season. It looked like a good time to be playing the Cherries, and an ideal opportunity to kick an old foe when they were down. And boy, would they have deserved it.

But this game was always going to be played in semi-isolation from the form book and other considerations like league position or managerial uncertainties. When the fixtures were first released, it was Luton, our traditional enemies, and Bournemouth, our current ones, whose dates we first picked out. This game had banana skin, or should I say, oil slick written all over it. Bournemouth hate us as much as we hate them, and no elevation in class or recent results would save us, in the final analysis, from succumbing to their superior hatred on the day.

It was a glorious sunny midday on the south coast, as we attempted to take three points off one of our promotion rivals for only the second time this season – our victory over Norwich in Xisco’s first home game being the only prior occasion. That match for me sums up the motivations in this one. We had been performing poorly and losing touch with the league leaders. We had dispensed with our head coach Vladimir Ivic and installed a new, unproven manager, in Xisco Munoz. We were playing a team in form, on top of the league, and it was imperative to perform well and not to lose. It meant everything to us and less so for Norwich. With this win we began to shrug loose Ivic’s defensive albatross, and after much backslapping and fist-pumping, enjoyed a victory boogie in the dressing room to Sweet Caroline. Somehow, we had re-discovered the joy of playing and winning as a team. Who knows what Bournemouth’s victory tune would be today – possibly Getting Away With It by Electronic.

Similarly, Woodgate’s Bournemouth were here not to lose. They set themselves up to frustrate and “do the simple things well”, as their manager said in the post-match interview. With four, rather than three, at the back, and with the cultured thug Carter-Vickers imposing himself alongside the experienced head of captain Steve Cook in the heart of their back line, it was clear Woodgate was demanding a disciplined and tight defensive shape. He was not let down by his charges.

Our away kit gleamed impossibly white in the sun’s glare, putting me in mind of a Daz Ultra advert. And if Bournemouth’s kit was reminiscent of AC Milan, suggesting flair in the attacking third mixed up with Italian devilry at the back, we were Real Madrid, confident and self-assured, emitting a pre-match entitlement to take the points home. But where Real Madrid are the kings of winding up and unsettling inferior opposition, with Sergio Ramos the absolute pass master of the art, we showed our lily-whiteness instead by rising to the opposition’s provocations. In the end it was our ill-discipline, regardless of any perceived injustice, that was our undoing.

The first half was a cagey contest, with two technically proficient sides whole-heartedly committing themselves to stymieing the opposition. There was some carefully constructed build-up play, but defences were on top throughout, and only one shot required intervention from a keeper, Bachmann tipping over Kelly’s drive just after the half-hour mark.

Bournemouth created the better chances. After 20 minutes, Junior Stanislas was guilty of fluffing his lines after cutting inside and hitting an air shot from only six yards out with only Bachmann to beat. He’d struck an earlier chance well enough but a full blocking body dive from Sierralta in the seventh minute suggested we would be putting bodies on the line, and not letting our recently cultivated intensity slip.

Watford’s chances were a poor return for 63% possession, Pedro heading wide from a Kiko cross on 25 minutes, and Hughes skying an effort over after a brilliant long punt from Bachmann had set Masina racing behind the Cherries’ back line. His pull back to Sarr, who then teed up the chance for Hughes, deserved a better finish. Watford probed from side to side in spells, but could not penetrate, and Sarr’s blasted effort from outside the box just before half-time, summed up the stale-mate.

Still, we had dominated the early exchanges, even if we hadn’t yet created clear-cut opportunities. We’d shown excellent early intent, crossing twice into the box in the opening minutes, Masina heading wide from a 4^th minute Kiko cross. We were the first to every ball, and there seemed to be acres of space for our midfield to operate in. Sarr was popping up on both flanks, Kiko and Cleverly were recycling the ball well, Sema had a wild swing or two, and Chalobah almost charged through the centre, just unable to beat Ben Pearson to the ball. Pedro and Kiko both had shots blocked from distance.

It seemed entirely plausible that we would slice Bournemouth open at some stage and score a quick goal or two to sting them, just as we had done against Derby and Blackburn in our last two outings. Chalobah was controlling the midfield creativity, Hughes and Cleverly waspish and relentless in support. We were not greatly troubled at the back. Sarr, Sema and Pedro, or the Armoured Spears, (as The Athletic’s Watford correspondent Adam Leventhal‘s anagram so delightfully captures their recent menace to Championship defences), could surely not remain blunted across another 45 minutes. The experienced mini-me supporter on my shoulder whispered in my ear that a draw would probably be a good point, and did I want to take it now? No way, I greedily rebutted.

The first half was remarkable for one striking anomaly. “Where is the needle?” my notes enquire. The earlier game between these two teams was more like a war, with Sarr’s legs raked by studs, and barely-legal challenges from the likes of Billing going unpunished, before a devastating 96^th minute Chris Mepham equaliser set-up by Kelly, a player who should have long been enjoying an early bath. The animosity between the teams has a potent recent history, including coinciding promotion to and relegation from the top flight (the Cherries pipping us by one point on each occasion, to no avail last year, but it did rob us of the title of Champions on the final day of the 2014/15 season).

I noted some of the testier and more antagonising Bournemouth players were on the bench, the likes of Billing and Wilshere, so perhaps this accounted for much of it. But I also took the lack of spice to suggest a lack of heart from the hosts – perhaps their containment-first strategy meant they weren’t bothered too much about unsettling us. Focused not so much on the three points, but on laying down a marker of intent to be more resilient, harder to break down, and if so be it, at the expense of their rampant attacking ethos under Eddie Howe.

My notes prior to the second half read: Lerma, once on the hornet’s radar; Gosling, can he haunt his old club? Long, will he pounce? I was preparing for something to happen and looking at the most likely candidates based on their ability to fulfil Murphy’s Law. Lerma because he chose a move to Bournemouth instead of us. Gosling because it would be his first minutes against his old team if he came on. And Shane Long, because he always scores against us. One of these cast members would indeed prove to be the main protagonist, but not in the way I had envisaged, with a stunning individual goal or the like. Oh no, not a bit of it.

The second half then was a notch more fired-up, Bournemouth encouraged by keeping us so resolutely at bay and in-check. Chalobah, Sarr and Kiko combined to cross for Pedro in the 50^th minute, Begovic getting ahead of the Brazilian to block away for a corner. Danjuma then danced past four of our defenders on the left of our goal before Sierralta put a stop to him. From the short corner Danjuma exposed us again, hugging the touchline and jinxing into the box before being snuffed out. Bachmann had to produce a fine diving save to his left from the same marauding player in the 58^th minute, which was followed immediately by our best chance, Sarr setting Cleverley racing clear into the box to shoot left-footed across Begovic who ably palmed it clear low to his left. We were getting  a little rattled by the increase in intensity from Bournemouth, and the joy they were suddenly finding from Danjuma’s trickery down our right flank.

I must now, calmly, address the defining moment of this game, as it led directly to many subsequent events, some of which were felt instantly, and some of which will have longer lasting ramifications for the yellows. The metaphorical stone chucked into the pond, producing ripples.

In the spirit of honest self-assessment, and wanting only to understand how everything unravelled quite as it did, we must admit to being culpable of several wrong doings. Chalobah did raise his hand to Jefferson Lerma’s face, and Pedro did lunge in twice, fairly recklessly, on the same player in the space of a few minutes, in injury time, deserving of his two yellow cards. After the first incident involving Chalobah, Cathcart was guilty of switching off from the resultant free-kick punted straight over our back line, and Bachmann was at fault for not covering his front post sufficiently to prevent the dangerous Danjuma from squeezing in the winning goal. The whole team were to blame for not starting the second half in the same vein as the first, allowing Danjuma time on the ball to twist and turn our defence, and penetrate our area with some dangerous runs. We did not capitalise on any of the chances we fashioned before or after the main pantomime event got underway.

Chalobah had been the best player on the pitch in the first half, playing with authority, physicality and panache, as well as that broadest of grins he so disarmingly wears through good, and even more so, patchy moments. Patchy is probably an understatement for the moment when Jefferson Lerma tackled Nate by jumping on him in an uninvited piggy-back, his arm grabbing across Chalobah’s neck for anchorage. Our man had been gamely trying to play football despite this human limpet unilaterally attaching himself.

Lerma’s grappling right arm across Chalobah’s neck may have simply been an attempt to keep hold of the piggy he was riding, but Nate instinctively repelled it with a raised hand, which, antagonised and impeded though it had been, stopped well short of meaningful contact. Meaningful contact means someone jumping on you and grabbing you around the neck like Willy Carson at Chepstow, not a hand of reasonable protest sent out as a last, frustrated, resort. Chalobah could at any stage have easily buckled his legs and gone down for a free-kick under his adversary’s mount. Instead, he swatted a hand in protest, as if to paw aside an irritating fly.

Jefferson Lerma’s subsequent reaction was appalling.  He hit the deck as if Tyson had caught him with an upper cut, and through a combination of under-handedness and, potentially, huge embarrassment, clutched his face and stayed down, much as if somebody had opened the Lost Ark and his face was melting. This lad could evidently give Rivaldo a lesson in histrionics and feigning injury.

Such was the extent of the over-reaction by Lerma, positioned as it was right by the technical areas, that virtually every player became drawn into the spectacle. Chalobah, grinning effusively, knew Lerma was pulling a fast one. Lerma, prostrate on the ground, surrounded by players, staff and officials for minutes on end, lay there milking it. At no point did anyone think to summon medical staff, for it was clear to all that this stricken man was faking it.

The Bournemouth players smelt blood, and a red card for their opponents’ best player would help their cause no end. They saw every reason to string this out, and by the time Chalobah had received a yellow card – which means an automatic two match ban for reaching 10 yellow cards this season – Lerma was back on his feet, and play could resume. Watford had switched off, and in some respects, given the injustice of the play-acting and the disruption to the flow of the game, a dip in concentration levels was understandable. However, when opposition players stay switched on and punish you, it is, in footballing terms, unforgiveable.

This was the first time Watford had conceded first in any league game under Xisco. I was intrigued to see if we could muster a response, but with the game descending into that feisty affair I had initially been expecting, and with Bournemouth so disciplined defensively, it looked like a difficult proposition. With Masina, Hughes and Chalobah now all in the ref’s notebook, did we have the freedom to be more robust in key areas and take the game to Bournemouth? For the first time in a while, I thought how great it would be to bring Deeney on. He would have relished an introduction here.

Bournemouth began to slow everything down, taking an age with goal kicks and throw-ins. Just before the carded Masina and Chalobah were subbed on 72 minutes for Lazaar and Gosling (could he?), Sarr had nutmegged Kelly and with a presentable chance hammered the ball wastefully into the near-side hoardings. Jack Wilshere, failed protégé, petulance etched on his face and coursing through his veins, was introduced for Stanislas, to bring some greatly unwanted cynicism, misery and anti-football to the afternoon’s play. He was yellow carded for delaying a throw-in, having hoofed one ball far into the corner of the stadium in a show of absolute disrespect for the laws of the game – and he would pay for this chronic gamesmanship in due course.

Our last notable chance came on 77 minutes when Sarr almost poached a headed Sema knock-down from in front of a hesitant Begovic, his forlorn reaction showing how close to stealing in he’d been. Lazaar had a couple of speculative efforts, showing some poor decision-making in crucial moments. Perica came on for Sema, but couldn’t get into the game, and was never likely to score as he had done in the reverse fixture. Billing took to the field for Ben Pearson, who had gone off with cramp, having scurried himself to the ground. Tellingly, it was Pearson, a battling cave-man destroyer, who was awarded Sky’s man-of-the-match. He had been a key nullifier, nullifying by example, and more pertinently, eligible for the award having not tarnished himself by being involved in any of the handbags that followed.

Lerma’s starring role did not end with the Chalobah incident, although he became more object than subject, as the minutes went by. Joao Pedro, showing the frustrations of a 19-year-old whose team is being stifled to the death, was typically relentless in his pursuit of ball retention. This feverish desire to change the game’s fortunes led to a hot-headed challenge on Lerma at the edge of the Bournemouth box, for which he was rightly carded, although this was simply teenage exuberance. Old Lerma hit the deck again, looking to fool absolutely nobody but run the clock down a bit. Gosling, his former team-mate, was having none of it and tried to hoist him off the turf, a look of disgust barely concealed on his face.

By the 96^th minute when it was clear the game had been strangled and was in its last whimperings, Pedro dived in again on Lerma, and could not help himself from kicking out after sliding through his man. The kick was small, and apologetic, but sufficient to get a second yellow, and his marching orders. This sparked a full-scale brawl as Wilshere steamed in on Cleverley before every man and his dog had a go. Both clubs will certainly face fines for failing to control their players, but players are only human, and they will react furiously when tempers are running high and injustices are seen to prevail.*

So to the fallout. No Chalobah for two games. No Pedro for one. Three points adrift of second after Brentford come from behind to beat Stoke. The consolation of a Nigel Pearson-enthused Bristol City beating Swansea away from home. Nothing very catastrophic has happened. Xisco Munoz in his post-match reaction intimated several times this experience would only strengthen his team’s resolve. In contrast, Woodgate’s hollow insistence that Chalobah’s raised hand merited a straight red, by “the laws of the game”, a politician’s answer, weak in and of itself. They’ll not be able to win games in this unvaliant manner every week. It’s not good PR when the Sky commentary team are branding your players shameful, and a “disgrace”.

Looking ahead, Gosling, Gray and Perica will have to step up as we enter a period of very winnable fixtures. If only Quina were not on loan in La Liga, scoring their goal of the week, he might have had a crucial part to play. We face the four bottom clubs in our next six matches, and need to put a run of wins together again. I hope Xisco is right and that we will channel the frustrations of today’s game into even more committed performances.

Today has shown us, if ever we needed reminding, that a play-off scenario is to be avoided at all costs. We do not want to be facing the likes of Bournemouth, Reading or Cardiff in a winner takes all contest, which can easily be reduced to a scrap to suit the underdogs.

And I will need to go back to the lucky shirt. The lucky blog ain’t so lucky anymore.

View match highlights here.

*The Harry Potter studios, not far from Watford, know a thing or two about good versus evil. If Draco Malfoy and his cronies had been ultimately victorious over Harry and his brigade, there would be no Hogwarts empire. The sneering, cheating, win-by-any-methods skulduggery of Voldemort’s followers were never meant to prevail. Dumbledore’s magic is stronger, and ultimately conquers. Harry finds it impossible to step away from provocation, and injustice, and that is only natural – we forgive him, laud him for it. And we note the Quidditch pitch is a thoroughly dangerous arena where scores are constantly settled, egos bruised, and bones broken. The Bournemouth Bludgers has a ring about it.