It’s hard to summon up any enthusiasm to write about this game, which was in the end – thank goodness – a blessed irrelevancy. Because Norwich thumped QPR 4-1 to win the Championship title, this result mattered not a jot to us – although we didn’t know that would be the case at kick-off, even if everybody expected as much. It’s just as well Norwich didn’t slip up, or this would have felt a tame way to surrender our interest in being Champions of the division.

We played like a team with sore heads and nothing much to play for, except the not insignificant joy of beating one of our season-long rivals for an automatic promotion place – rivals no more. But that carrot was plainly not juicy enough. On the other side of the half-way line, Brentford were a team looking to build up a head of steam, which is exactly what you need when the play-offs arrive – now guaranteed for them, along with Swansea, Bournemouth and Barnsley.

The romantics among us will hope Barnsley make it through, if only to deliver a team more likely to go down than us next year. As much as I couldn’t stomach Bournemouth getting promoted the “fun” way, it would add a bit of spice to our Premier League fixture list in 2021/22. Brentford probably deserve it, having secured two 3^rd place finishes in a row. Swansea would give Wales some welcome representation, but their defensive brand of football hardly promises a great deal of top flight entertainment.

If all I have to protest about this weekend is my already promoted team’s lacklustre performance, then I’ll take that. A wider protest about online abuse in the game led to a four-day social media boycott, a not-so-subtle hint to the likes of Twitter and Facebook that football is growing weary of these tech giants’ slow response to the problem highlighted by – well, pretty much every black and ethnic minority footballer going.

This cause – which is to say every decent human being’s cause – is bigger than football, and the venomous, vitriolic posts that trolls feel able to post with impunity, must be dealt with swiftly by those who give their voice a platform, and at some tangible cost to the perpetrators. As the gateway for broadcasting such filth and hatred, the social media companies must act. It may be a small minority responsible for the abuse, but they ruin it for everyone.

Another protest this past weekend led to the Manchester United versus Liverpool game being postponed. On a personal level, this absolutely decimated my weekly fantasy football team, but again, wider issues were at stake. Cynics might point out that had Liverpool beaten their fiercest rivals, it would have handed the Premier League title to the blue half of Manchester – and which United fan wouldn’t wish that can kicked down the road a little? They might also look at the amount United have spent on transfers under the tenure of the Glazers – second only, again, to the blue half – and wonder at how such big spending owners can engender such hatred amongst their fans.

Well, owners that aren’t visible, and which don’t communicate with their fanbase are on a rocky path to begin with. If they try to unilaterally sell the club into a proposed European Super League, this ups the ante. If they are seen to be using their club to service debts, running it as a loss-making enterprise, then how might that impact the future financial solidity of the whole enterprise? And if, on top of all that, you don’t win any trophies, well…

The beef United fans have with their owners is widespread, and their right to protest accepted by pretty much all of us. Invading the pitch, injuring police officers – well, we’re back talking about the kind of impact a small minority can have that spoils the message for everyone.

Let’s reluctantly get back to the rather insipid-sounding Brentford Community Stadium. The only Watford player I could see with genuine fire in his boots was a certain Joseph Hungbo, making his club debut in the place of my vote for player-of-the-season, Ismaila Sarr, who was rested with a slight knock. How crushing for Joseph – and the rest of us –  that he should last only 20-odd minutes before pulling his hamstring and having to go off.

It reminded me of the first game of the season when another promising young starlet, Tom Dele-Bashiru, was given a precious start in the league. He was arguably our brightest spark on the pitch before he succumbed to a season-ending ligament injury. Back in full training, he may yet top and tail the season with an appearance in our final home game. I do hope so.

We took the field with no Sarr, no Pedro, no Kiko and no Troost-Ekong. Cathcart maintained his right-back duties, Andre Gray filled in as the main striker, and the fit-again Christian Kabasele as central defensive partner for Sierralta.

We started the better, Cleverley whipping in a 2^nd minute free-kick which Cathcart headed wide. After a sparkling run into the Brentford area, Hungbo set up Dan Gosling for what turned out to be our best chance of the match in the 10^th minute. The ex-Cherry hit it well enough from just inside the box, but Raya was its equal, diving low to his left.

As the half progressed, the home side came more into things. Sierralta cleared a dangerous Canos header from our box following a 15^th minute free-kick, and two minutes later, Norgaard hit one just over the bar from a raking Jensen delivery. As Brentford plumped up their plumage, ready to ruffle us, we slowly retreated to the back of the cage, content, as far as this metaphor goes anyway, to sit back on the 88 points in our nest. I totally get it – it’s hard to foster a mad desire to fight for scraps against a high-pressing, up-for-it opponent, when there’s very little to get up about. Easier just to hunker down. Squawk.

Hungbo’s last real involvement came from a dangerous position on the right flank, from which he wanted to cut in on his left foot to shoot. He delayed and delayed, then got pushed back into playing the ball towards his own half, chance gone. As if to atone for this opportunity spurned he rushed exuberantly to chase down the next forward ball and, in over-exerting himself, pulled up sharply. Much of the team spirit departed with him. Zinckernagel replaced him, but this was not Zinckernagel the assist-wizard. It was school’s out Zinckernagel, called back early to class.

After we were forced into this early change, Brentford could just sniff the points. They were to be further encouraged when Tom Cleverley signalled he needed to come off in the 30^th minute, to be replaced by the serially disappointing Isaac Success. As if our team sheet without Pedro, Sarr, Kiko and Chalobah hadn’t been invitation enough.

The Bees’ first half chances may have amounted to nothing, but momentum was gathered. Forss shanked a shot from an Ivan Toney backheel. His pull-back required intervention from Gosling to block a Brentford shot. Canos whipped in a cross which Sierralta headed clear with Forss waiting to score. Fosu stuck the ball in our net in the 31^st minute, but had come back from an offside position to do so. A mistake from Sierralta led to a Fosu cross which Toney headed weakly at Bachmann.

As Brentford huffed and puffed, we offered virtually nothing in an attacking sense. Captain Hughes was tidy in possession, Gosling was tackling impressively. We won several corners, but our final balls were criminally poor.

Half-time rolled around, and at the very start of the second half, we got turned over. It didn’t take the Bees long to sting – 56 seconds to be precise. Fosu played Canos into the left channel, deep inside our box, his cross tucked in too easily by Forss at the back post. Any chance of a different Watford emerging after the break was thus blown clean away. Success mustered a blocked shot, and Sema overran a ball on the right wing. Ahh, whatever! Homer Simpson might have said mid-Duff, eyeing up the snack bowl. This game is an essentially meaningless opportunity to drink beer. Cheers – hic.

For us, perhaps that was true, but for Toney, eyeing up a 30-goal haul this season, not so. He only had to wait until the 59^th minute to coolly convert a penalty – his second against Watford this season – hard and low to Bachmann’s left. He’d won the penalty against Sierralta, despatching it with Premier League insouciance. I wonder who he’ll be playing for against us next year if Brentford don’t make it? There will, I’m sure, be plenty of suitors. As a footnote, Toney’s effort brought up our 30^th goal conceded of the campaign, a joint record low for the hornets. It will remain record-equalling unless Swansea can prevent us getting another clean sheet on the final day.

Despite ourselves, we might have got back into the game. Success rather notably rattled the crossbar with a fierce effort following a trademark Masina diagonal. Gray might have converted a Cathcart pass from 8 yards out if his first touch hadn’t been so, well, typically Andre. On a three versus three breakaway, Success blasted an intended pass to Gray miles ahead of its intended target. Sema and Zinckernagel had poor long-distance strikes.

With five to play, a gaggle of bit-parts trotted on from the bench, including young(ish) master Pochettino. At 22 years old, he’s not that young, and given this display, one might be tempted to water down any expectations. As off-the-pace and slow-to-react as he most definitely was, this probably wasn’t the stage to make a name for himself and we might just put it down to nerves on his debut. Another sub, Stipe Perica – who must win the award for the most steeply declining impact of the season – managed a half-decent run and chip which didn’t overly bother Reya in the Brentford sticks, and was then carded for a foul on Jansson.

Brentford carried all the real threats in the game, with Canos the main instigator. In the 67^th minute he struck a curling effort just wide of the post with the outside of his boot. Norgaard should have done better with a free back-post header in the 78^th minute. Fosu hit a rising effort just over the bar in the 84^th minute, before a stoppage time Canos chance hit the bar, his follow-up flashing just wide from the right hand side.

Two things not to like. One, when your team loses – be it a pre-season friendly or the FA Cup Final – losing hurts full stop. Two, having precious little to play for. Like today. It renders the football soulless, the fare served up chewy and inedible. Like an overcooked chicken, dry and derelict. Squawk.

As fantabulous as the Premier League undoubtedly is, the risk of both of these things-not-to-like occurring is greater up there. We’re going to lose more than we win, and get a good roasting every now and then. Wins will come at a premium, but will taste all the sweeter for their rarity. The price of playing well enough to steer clear of relegation trouble means many more dead rubbers like this one, although with Premier League cash dependent on final league standings, there’s always some motivation – at least from the boardroom – to improve the points total.

But we’d take that – a few matches with nothing much resting on them, our status safe. In all likelihood, our status will not be so easily safeguarded, and so the majority of our games, I expect, will matter a great deal in terms of survival. If we do a West Ham, or even a Leicester, maybe they’ll matter in a more delirium-inducing way – Champions League or Europa League? It won’t happen, of course, but as long as it might, we can all dream.

And games like today’s are for the dreamers. When there’s nothing very palatable in front of you, it’s license to let the imagination wander. When there’s such a disconnect between what you’re presently watching and what you’re anticipating in games to come, why not take yourself away on a flight of fancy? Play out beautiful, glorious scenarios of global success in your projections of the future Watford FC. There can be no better time to fantasise about the banquets and feasts to come, than when you’re numbly digesting the footballing equivalent of tofu.*

*not a World Cup winning Brazilian from the 1970s