Author Archives: lonehornet

Watford 2 Swansea 0

An impromptu game of dodgeball in the kitchen proved costly on Thursday. As I watched my son’s red and white Ajax sponge ball hit the full pint of water, time slowed down. As if poured by an invisible hand, the glass emptied its entire contents over my laptop, before rolling off the table to produce a mighty crack and shower of glass everywhere. That’s why on Saturday I was watching the Watford game on the home PC in our little office room, rather than wired up to the telly. It turned out to be quite an exciting little bunker on the final day of our fabulous season.

The nearest footballing team of any significance in my locality is Derby County. On Saturday, it was a must win game for the Rams and their manager, Wayne Rooney, to stay in our division. Being in that position on the final day, as we well know from last year’s trip to Arsenal, is a vomit-inducing prospect. I was keen to keep an eye on things happening at the bottom of the table as much as I wanted to cheer the golden boys on to potentially 59 home points, and a 22nd clean sheet of the season.

So, Hive Live set up on the home PC, final score on the phone, hidden away from marauding kids and ready for some lunchtime drama – the good kind, where nothing very bad can happen to your own team.  I felt very good about our chances today even though we hadn’t managed to win a game on the final day for about a decade. A Swansea win would complete the only double against us all season, but their recent form didn’t make them good candidates to steal all six points. After the poor showing at Brentford, I expected some statement of intent from the home side. Watch our Premier League – here we come…

The team sheet rather took the wind from my sails. It included plenty of squad players whose performances this year I have been quite unkind about. The likes of Navarro and Lazaar in our full-back positions. Success and Gray leading the line. Suddenly our chances of keeping a clean sheet to equal the Championship all-time record low of 30 goals conceded (set by Reading in the 2005/06 campaign) looked far-fetched. Even the change in goal, with super Ben coming in, and the centre-half pairing of Cathcart and Kabasele, looked vulnerable, if for no other reason than they were simply not the very consistently dependable trio of Bachmann, Sierralta and Troost-Ekong. Still, at least we didn’t need to win to stay up.

There were fireworks and flame-throwers before the kick-off. Streamers too, that rose and rippled in the air, eventually tangling up in the roof of the stands. Elton John was in attendance with David Furnish and their sons, who looked very up for their visit to the Vic – a couple of die-hard hornets fans in the making by the looks of it. But for all the flames and stardust, what this game needed was a bunch of 22,000 jolly, jumping, singing, barmy, bouncing, singing, flag-waving supporters to cheer the team’s success. This would have been a day to relax, enjoy the beer and camaraderie, and not worry too much about our brittle full-backs.

The very opposite feelings would have been resonating around a full Pride Park. A sick feeling in the pit of the stomach. The utter helplessness. The praying for some luck, or some guts on show, or some miraculous reversal of fortunes to stave off the drop. Tears on the menu – of joy, or despair – get the hankies ready. Derby’s opponents Sheffield Wednesday could only escape the drop with a win. A draw would only be good enough for Derby if Rotherham failed to beat Cardiff away. Wycombe, victims of an inferior goal difference, would need to score about a hundred goals away at Middlesboro to be in the mix. The end of the season came a week early for them – despite a tremendous 0-3 victory away on Teeside, which lifted them off the bottom of the table, the miracle did not happen.

Back to the sunny Vic, with nothing much to play for except equalling league records, pride, and beating our tally of points last time we were promoted (89 points, one behind Bournemouth). We fashioned a great early chance in the 4th minute after Kabasele had brought the ball out of defence on a long, unchallenged stroll. He found Gosling, who set the scurrying mister Sema down the left wing to produce a great cross, steered just wide of the near post by Zinckernagel. Encouraging stuff.

Swansea took a little longer to thaw, but with Ayew on the pitch, always looking to create shooting opportunities, it didn’t take them long to register an effort on target. It was indeed the Swansea number 10 who forced Ben into a near-post block to concede a 7th minute corner, from which our ex-England keeper clawed away a wicked Hourihane delivery.

The last time Foster’s go-pro camera was positioned in our net was in the reverse fixture, when Jamal Lowe took pleasure in addressing it directly having stuck a winner past The Cycling Goalkeeper. Lowe has since looked much less of a proposition in the league, but I did hope the re-emergence of the in-goal camera would not trigger him back into form. I needn’t have worried.

The 11th minute found Sema unmarked in the Swans’ box but his shot was deflected. The Swede recycled the ball and fed the galloping Gosling who couldn’t connect as he sped into the area. Navarro could, a little further out, but lashed his drive into a host of white bodies. Gosling, typically, was winning possession back off Ayew in his own penalty area a minute later, which set the team forward-looking again. This time Sanchez provided for Lazaar who skillfully chested down the ball and – instead of blazing wastefully over, or bringing his man down – cut back and played a considered square ball across the six yard area, blocked for a corner. It was not to be the last bit of good play from Lazaar, who seemed to have his head switched on to compliment his evident technical and physical merits. Who else but Gosling dashed in to attack the corner, even if his effort was skied harmlessly over.

Swansea’s brand of possession-based football, hitherto under wraps, began to emerge. Hourihane, an excellent January loan signing from Villa, shot consummately after some neat, quick passing. Foster dived alertly to his left to keep it out. Swansea took questionable advantage from a re-start, following a hand injury to Success, and had it not been for some last-ditch defending in our six-yard box, might have scored. Watford players were not happy, but Swansea pressed on sensing our heads were turned, and Cullen headed narrowly wide from a Bidwell cross moments later.

From a Watford perspective, the well ran a bit dry as the half progressed, with the final ball never reaching its intended target, which for the most part was a very frustrated Andre Gray. Andre was making the runs time and time again, only for Gosling to play the ball against his heels in the 24th minute, and Zinckernagel to play one behind him in the 27th. Zinckernagel’s neat turn produced a very wayward shot in the 39th minute, trumped by Sema’s right-footed effort that ended up further away from the goal on the opposite touchline.

Back in Derby, the Rams were losing 1-0, and Rotherham winning 1-0, which would see Rotherham safe, and both the teams battling at Pride Park down. It looked curtains for Wayne’s team. It sounded like they were playing well and throwing everything at Wednesday, but when things aren’t going your way…

How often does the start of a book, or film, promise little, but then gradually sink its hooks into you? Well, the second half in both games delivered plenty of hooks. At the Vic, it was to be a tale of vindication, a battle through adversity to success – we could call it Striker’s Redemption. A story of missed chances and efforts unrewarded until hard work, and longevity, pay off.

Andre Gray persisted with his forward runs, even if he must have despaired three minutes after the re-start when Isaac played a through ball with such a heavy touch it could have come from Nigel Planer’s Neil in The Young Ones. Success overhit another one to Gray on a counter-attack in the 53rd minute, and even I winced at that one.

A minute later Lazaar, playing more like Lazarus (where had these new-found skills come from?)  –  intercepted a Swansea attack in his own box and marauded forward, looking for his redemptive moment too. He laid the ball off to Isaac and Andre, who both went, and checked, and eventually stopped in their tracks, as the ball rolled away apologetically. This is the pivotal scene where all hope seems lost. The main characters are overcome with despair, regret and a good deal of hatred towards those who have thwarted them. If this is an art-house movie, we end here. If it is Hollywood, we demand fairy-tales.

It’s the 56th minute and Andre is on another run, having re-doubled his efforts to win back possession near the half-way line, busting a gut to be in there again, to be hurt again – no, why is he doing this to himself? Sema, who had just one minute before cut a brilliant ball back into an unoccupied  Swansea area, went again. This time his cross would not be unmet. This time Andre’s run would not be in vain. The ball cannoned off our front man’s chest, maybe shoulder, and rippled the Rookery End’s netting. Gray had more than earned that piece of good fortune. American audiences would be whooping in the cinema, us Brits perhaps clutching a loved one’s arm and sniffing into the pop-corn. And then a small child turns to its mother and asks poignantly – but what’s going to happen to poor Isaac?

And what was going to happen to poor Derby. Boy, had they been poor this season for a team always expected to challenge for at least a play-off berth. Well, shortly after Ben Foster had spread himself excellently to deny Ayew, and Lazaar had produced a Zidane-like tackle and charging forward run, evading three or four challenges on his way down the pitch, Derby were in front. Their go-to man Martin Waghorn had turned the game on its head and Wednesday looked sunk. Rotherham were still one nil up at Cardiff, but it no longer mattered. Rooney’s boys were in the box seat.

The Watford game was unplugged as a contest in the 65th minute with a raft of substitutions. Swansea had been brave, or perhaps foolish, to play such a strong eleven considering the upcoming play-offs, but now Cooper decided to let one strong hand go of the balloon. He took off Grimes, Lowe, Cullen and Ayew, for Routledge, Smith, Cooper and Dhanda. We hiked Zinckernagel and Sanchez, for Pedro and fresh from the barber’s chair Hughes. Jan Dhanda clearly had something to prove, causing plenty of mischief for Navarro to deal with. In the 68th minute he crossed teasingly for a Cooper chance, then forced Foster into a save cutting in on his right foot.

Now there’s a late introduction from an Oscar-winner, to a standing ovation and whoops from that US cinema crowd. It could be Tom Hanks, or Morgan Freeman. In the UK, perhaps Dame Helen Mirren might inspire some fervent sighing, Sir Ian McKellan might rouse the half-asleep to shuffle upright and look appreciatively at their neighbour. Troy Deeney, box office dynamite, steps back on the pitch for 16 minutes of good old-fashioned feel-good closure. But mummy, what about poor Isaac?

Back in Derbyshire, the Rams faithful are now understanding why this game had been given an 18 certificate. It was in fact a horror movie. Sheffield Wednesday, 1-0 up and 2-1 down, had found their own brand of final day death-defying arousal. Like zombies from the churchyard, they had stumbled their way through a brittle Derby rear-guard, not once, but twice, to lead 3-2. You could hear the screams from every living room and outside bar space in the vicinity. Young children were ushered away from screens and radio commentary, to limit the psychological scarring.

Back in laid-back Hertfordshire, the hornets were doing enough to preserve their clean sheet. Lazaar continued to tackle like Moore, Sema put crosses in, and Deeney soaked in attention. Dhanda continued to pester late on, smashing a shot into his colleague Cooper’s face. Routledge chanced one that deflected off a close-in-attendance Kabasele. Swansea were racking up the corners, but Hughes, like a new battery in an old toy, began tackling for fun and kicking some ass.

In the 84th minute, the game’s left-back sub-plot almost delivered a perfect conclusion. Masina came on with Wilmot, Gosling and Sema making way, pushing Lazaar forward into midfield. After a neat interchange between Pedro and Deeney, Achraf nearly got the goal his performance deserved with a Mark Hughes strength strike that stung the palms of Woodman as he tipped it over. But mummy – sssh I said!!

Meanwhile, back at the horror show, Martin Waghorn, appraising a Martin Freeman kind of average-man-hero role, had levelled things up at 3-3 with a bravely taken penalty into the top left corner. With 12 minutes to go, and Rotherham still winning, both sides were set to perish with a stalemate result. Both teams needed the win to give them any hope, although all hopes appeared lost. Desperate, bloodied, and with limbs hanging off, could either team escape the reaper?

With two minutes to play, Navarro plays a long ball down the right channel over Bidwell’s head. Success is still on the pitch, even though Gray has been subbed, his plotline neatly squared off. Isaac watches the ball come over his shoulder. Spielberg wants this in ultra slow-mo, from fifty angles, single blades of grass pirouetting in the air, a sense of time caught in a vacuum of possibility. And, action!

Isaac watches the ball bounce and reaches it perfectly in his stride. There is no Andre to over-hit a pass to. He will have to grab destiny by the throat and smash it. His first-time hit of the gently descending ball roars  across Woodman whose fingers make contact but can’t prevent a sumptuous goal in the far top corner. The large Cokes are flying, lids off, strangers are hugging and children are feeling emotions they didn’t know existed. Elton’s youngsters are bouncing off the chairs and punching the air.

At Pride Park, there seems no way out for either team. Until, in the 88th minute, from Cardiff, an equaliser against Rotherham. Ah the cruelty of football – the beauty! Now, with Rotherham sunk, Derby are going to stay up, unless Wednesday can steal a winner which would see them safe instead. Rooney brings the unfit but immensely experienced Curtis Davies into the Derby defence to resist the final Sheffield push, and after 7 minutes of extra time it is enough. Derby stay up. Wednesday live to rue their 6 point deduction. Rotherham, minutes from staying in the division, have fallen down the trapdoor. Wycombe, so strong in the end, finish third bottom and a single point off Derby.

Things perish, like my laptop. Like Rotherham and Wednesday’s hopes. Things come back when all seems lost: Derby County, Achraf Lazaar, and Isaac Success to name but a few. Things show immense power just to be there at all- Sol Bamba taking the field late-on in Cardiff having recovered from a diagnosis of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Deeney in a yellow shirt again. Things get better. Premier League football will return to Vicarage Road, and soon Boris will allow us to hug again.

This blog post, like a film that has gone on far too long, has no doubt lost a good portion of its audience along the way. For those that stayed for the final credits, thank you for watching.  

Brentford 2 Watford 0

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 3rd 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 2nd 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 10th 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 15th 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 30th 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 31st 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 59th 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 30th 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 67th 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 78th minute. Fosu hit a rising effort just over the bar in the 84th 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

Watford 1 Millwall 0

We’ve done it. So why do I feel about as flat as a pancake? Is it because there’s no-one in yellow to hug, no venue to scream into the air from, no walk to the station to soak in the relative enormity of the moment, how one game can put so many smiles on thousands of faithful faces?

In a scrappy, nervy game, we did enough, but only just. At the final whistle I felt relief, but when I looked around to share that moment – the moment – of the season with a like-minded soul, there was nobody. Just a grumpy child moaning about how little charge there was left on the iPad, and a comatose cat.

I thought I’d jump-start the euphoria with a victory beer, or two, but they were most definitely forced ones. As I watched the team celebrating, Xisco’s emotional reaction, and the players joyous togetherness, I felt less like them, and more perhaps like a certain Mr Deeney who was indeed there, a huge presence in his white Dior jumper, having watched the game with his daughter, but whose mood was tempered rather than elated.

I turned instead to the impossible-to-deliver “YouTube promotion party” which offered us some very contrasting reactions from the Hive Live studio. Bachmann was buzzing, living the dream on the pitch under the fatherly tutelage of our official number 1, Ben Foster, whose exuberant pride in his understudy’s performance spoke volumes about him as a man, and the power of the Goalkeeper’s Union to stick together at all times. If Man City come knocking for Ben’s services, as I’ve heard rumoured, might he be tempted? Will Bachmann resume an understudy role if we bring in Martin Dubravka from Newcastle? It would be harsh to take the gloves away now.

While the other players were busy soaking up the sunshine, swigging beer and dancing deservedly around with promotion banners in front of the empty stands, a sanguine Deeney, and an uncomfortable looking CEO in Scott Duxbury, took the praise and questions from Emma Saunders, where the exuberant compliments dished out in the happy vindication of promotion rang a little hollow.

Deeney’s exclusion from the team due to injury had coincided with our change in formation, and subsequent rocketing up the league table. He’s been a key figure in the dressing room, travelling to all the away games, and his hug with Munoz told us a lot about the Spaniard’s reliance on our talisman to keep the team spirit stoked, minds and limbs focused. But Troy was more eager to reference non-footballing matters – the jobs and livelihoods of club staff, which had been threatened by relegation and which he seemed to take on as a personal burden. It was what he spoke about in the immediate aftermath of relegation on the Emirates pitch, and the story he picked up again as the club were newly savouring its return to the Premier League. What now for Troy? I hope he stays with us, in whatever capacity, for a long time. I can see him playing a key role similar to Duncan Ferguson at Everton. If he chooses to go, for it would be his choice one feels, then what money a statue of Troy at the Vic? He has defined this club’s modern era.

The cameras were keen to pick out Scott Duxbury, pacing the terraces, a man restless in the shadows awaiting the final verdict on his stewardship of the club this season. The last thing he probably wanted was to face the fans on the telly, but it was a good move. Clearly not a man at ease in the spotlight, he does however have his hands on the tiller, and we all need to see his human side, not just a club statement every now and then. After relegation, he said he would commit everything to get us promoted, and intimated that keeping all the staff on and plenty of the club’s high-earning stars had been close to financial suicide given the pandemic and drastic loss of income. It was an all or nothing gamble, so no wonder he cut a highly agitated figure in the stands, watching this scrappy one-niller, waiting for the ref’s whistle to bring closure on the season’s objective.

He revealed that these three points were the most important achievement in his time at Watford, and that, like all good families, we should stick together even if sometimes we don’t see eye-to-eye. He’ll win no Oscars for the performance, but every Watford supporter should be encouraged by his heartfelt words, and give him huge thanks for taking on the gamble – and winning – for the hornets faithful.

Perhaps my strangely downbeat mood is a result of having been thoroughly spoiled by the manner of promotions past. Our success via the play-offs in 1999 was the way to do it – if we’re talking euphoria. Under Graham Taylor – his second spell in charge – we put together a late, bullish charge into the play-offs, then wondrously made it past Birmingham in a penalty shoot-out nail-biter to get to the old Wembley. I was crying as Graham led the Watford boys onto the Wembley turf, flags flying, ticker-tape swirling, our gaffer’s grin the widest in the whole land. Nick Wright’s overhead kick, and then Allan Smart’s decisive late finish gave us one hell of a day out and it was like a carnival on Wembley Way.

The next day me and my girlfriend, now wife, flew off for a cheap week in Zante. I can still remember waking up the first morning in Greece and staring in stuporous wonder at the newspaper next to the bed proclaiming our victory, emblazoned with red and yellow, Graham’s even wider-now grin holding the play-off final trophy aloft. It was like a dream, a sweet, euphoric dream. I still have that newspaper in a box somewhere, a priceless memory sealed within its folds.

Beating the Millwall 1-0, with two games to spare, in a season without fans, with one of the best squads in the Championship… to be honest, there’s no comparison. The truth is we were one of the pre-season favourites to go up, and wobbled less than others in this division. Missing out on promotion, however, would have had devastating consequences for our future ambitions. The stakes were high, and bouncing back at the first time of asking is, historically, very difficult. So I do not underplay, or underestimate just how well we’ve done to take our fantastic resources and players and make them count. We can all breathe a mighty sigh after the implosion of 2019/20. Hughes and Sarr proved our get-out-of-jail cards. Duxbury, together with Gino, made what were proven to be the right choices, putting their heart, soul and reputation into the rescue attempt. Ivic was the iceberg we avoided; Xisco the oasis that was no mirage after all.

So I need to get over myself. We’ve done it. We’ve done it. We’ve done it. No small thing. Our collective moment of euphoria came against Norwich, where the performance and result combined exquisitely to propel us beyond reach. That game was our out-pouring of intense desire, the real clincher. And when the Premier League fixture list comes out in the summer, bring on the goose-bumps and fist-pumps.

I should briefly mention how we got across the line on Saturday. There was no romp to victory, or calm inevitability about proceedings. In fact, as 10-man Brentford had seen off Bournemouth in the lunch-time kick-off, there were more than a few jitters. A hungry, back-to-winning-ways Brentford up next, at their place, knowing a win would take things to the last day… had we choked, i.e. played the occasion and not the game, as the cliché says, who knows what further anguishes might have unfolded in the coming weeks. But for all the nerves, which certainly affected our game, an early goal put us in the driving seat, from which we stubbornly rode our luck and momentum all the way to the end.

Perhaps it was the fear of making mistakes which meant a slow start to the game, which, inevitably, led to some mistakes. Kiko and Masina both surrendered possession with loose passes in the opening stages. The towering Cooper won the first duel with Sarr, before Millwall put a long Romeo throw into our box leading to a tame Wallace effort, easy for Bachmann. But you could sense we weren’t going to have this all our own way.

Then a bit of electric legwork from Sarr on the right-edge of the Lions’ box, and Billy Mitchell’s late challenge brought him down. A 10th minute penalty to settle the nerves, and Sarr took responsibility, looking for his 13th goal of the season. With Deeney in the stands watching, none of us knew quite what to expect from the spot kick, only that Sarr had been cool in despatching previous ones, and looked unfazed here. His finish was a simple pass into the centre of the goal after the keeper moved early to his left. The ball had begun to roll just prior to contact, but such was the measured nature of Sarr’s approach, it didn’t matter. Had he been aiming hard for a postage stamp in the corner, it might have. We’ve scored ten from ten this year from the penalty spot, and many of those, like today’s, have been the winning goal.

The industrious, committed Cleverley put a free-kick onto Dan Gosling’s head in the 17th minute which he headed down and into the arms of Bialkowski. His run and through-ball to Pedro a minute later almost saw the Brazilian produce after a neat check back, but his shot was blocked. Sema swung a corner in on 19 minutes, which Hughes sent well wide from range. The ex-Derby man was once again a vortex of ball-winning aptitude, both graceful and combative, a proper footballer through and through. He tackled back in the 21st minute, tidied up a spot of bother and then set Sarr out of the traps into space. His pull-back from the goal line was just behind the onrushing Pedro. A minute later and it was our number 8, Tom Cleverley, tackling back to rob Mason Bennett.

Millwall’s Bradshaw fired just wide with a rising effort, latching onto Troost-Ekong’s headed clearance from a free-kick. Our visitors were clearly going to be dangerous from set pieces, especially with the commanding Cooper, and finishing instincts of players like Wallace. They had in fact scored in 12 of their last 13 away games, so one goal for us would probably be insufficient. A Millwall equaliser would really test our mettle.

A 30th minute injury forced Kiko Femenia from the field. Many fans’ player of the season, and certainly our most consistent one in the first half of the campaign, his loss would ordinarily have had us rushing for our rosary beads. But having witnessed Craig Cathcart reprise this right-back role to such great effect against Norwich, it didn’t feel like any kind of real upset. If anything, the Ulsterman would add height to our back line and more composure in our own half, even if we might lack the kind of attacking thrust that had already seen Kiko and Sarr combine to win us the penalty. It was to be Cathcart’s 199th appearance in a Watford shirt, and there is no substitution for experience (except this one, of course).

We survived a sticky patch with 10 minutes of the first half to play. Barely had we seen Sierralta and Gosling combining to clear a threatening Millwall free-kick, before Billy Mitchell found room to shoot powerfully from the edge of our box. Bachmann, diving to his left, forced the ball back out, his shoulder connecting with the base of the post. With little time to react he was up and diving to fingertip a Bennett shot onto the crossbar and out for a corner, from which Malone headed forcefully wide, completely unmarked as he arrived late into the box. Duxbury’s back-and-forth pacing visibly quickened from the stands. Sierralta beat Bradshaw to a cross, conceding a corner. Troost-Ekong played a lazy ball into trouble, a fire which Masina and Gosling quickly put out. Half-time arrived just in time.

Win this next 45, and we’re back in the Prem. Come on boys. But Millwall were quicker out of the blocks, Wallace sending another good cross for Bradshaw to dink over the bar. After a Cathcart slip up-field, Hughes was stationed defending the box one-on-one with Bennett, who blasted wide. Cathcart was there at the back stick to prevent Cooper connecting in any meaningful way with a Malone set-piece. Our first attack came from Sema squirrelling away from his markers to cross from the left, but with no reward. Sarr, now triple-marked on occasions, was finding it harder to affect play.

In the 57th minute, Xisco Munoz appeared apoplectic, lambasting the fourth official about a throw-in decision. Clearly hyped up, our amiable, cheeky Spanish head coach, was living and breathing every moment. He is quick to smile, and have a joke, but is serious about winning. Let’s hope his brand of management can flourish at the next level. In the 60th minute he summoned Gray and Chalobah from the bench to replace the largely frustrated Pedro, and tiring Gosling. If he was hoping for the kind of stella impact from this pair we gained at Carrow Road on Tuesday, it was not particularly forthcoming, but fresh legs were vital.

Bachmann’s long ball sent Sarr into the box where he was bumped to the ground by Romeo, who had no intention of playing the ball, but the ref saw nothing wrong. On a swift Millwall counter, Mitchell’s strike was deflected wide, Cathcart clearing the resulting corner for another one, which Bachmann managed to claw away under pressure.

As the clock ticked down, plenty of half-chances came and went, with shots from Sema, Gray and Cleverley, blocked, saved or mis-hit. There were no glaring misses or outstanding saves, but our foot had loosened off the break pedal and we were gaining a little traction. As we began to reassert ourselves, Gary Rowett made changes to personnel, bringing on Williams and Zohore for the spent Mitchell and Bradshaw, which seemed to re-set the status quo. Further Millwall changes disrupted the flow as we approached the 80th minute, Rowett throwing on Connor Mahoney and Muller for McNamara and Malone.

With only 10 minutes plus stoppage time between us and promotion, the fans’ viewing remit intensified. The significance of every pass and decision now amplified around our feverish craniums. Sema’s dogged determination to beat his man twice showed exactly the kind of double tenacity now required, his winning of a corner killing more precious seconds. But from the corner, Millwall flooded forward determined to smash up our YouTube promotion party, until Adam Masina, with back-up from Cleverley, wrested back control of the ball.

Troost-Ekong raised a few pulses with the reckless bundling over of sub Mahoney – Bachmann claiming the free-kick decisively on the way to yet another clean sheet – and a stray pass directly to dangerman Wallace in the middle of our own half. But with the likes of Sema mucking in deep in his own half to fight for the ball, and Sanchez brought on to add more steel to our mid-line, any nervous mistakes were quickly rectified. Sema, tugged back by Muller in the 86th minute, for which he was cautioned, inched us ever closer to our goal.

4 minutes to go. 3. Wallace crosses, but no-one is there. Romeo shoots over, son of Soul II Soul’s frontman Jazzy B. Tommy Mooney could not help himself quipping about the finish not being very jazzy. It was five seconds of light entertainment, a giggle breaking out in the operating theatre, a fart into crocodile infested waters. 2 minutes. Kieftenbeld shoots from a Troost-Ekong headed clearance.

4 minutes of extra time! Foul by Zohore on Adam Masina. What a great foul! 3 mins. 2 mins. Sarr in his own box, tussling with the Millwall attacker, moments from bringing him down. He bumps into him and as they rebound, Sarr gets clipped and wins the foul. Enormous moment. 50 seconds to go…

As the ref blew for full time, the Watford pendulum had swung finally into the promotion zone and stayed there. The 12th promotion in our club’s history had been secured. Exhausted, and relieved, I went to get that token beer, and cheersed myself and all the uninterested inanimate objects around me. I suppose it’s that oldest of chestnuts – the chase being greater than the kill. Now the target was reached, where was the epiphany? After New Year fireworks, all that’s really left is ringing in the ears, smoke and a long journey home.

An interesting piece in The Guardian about our season being akin to a phantom promotion. It’s true, in a sense. Our last home game with a full house was our 3-0 victory against champions-elect Liverpool in February 2020. Two managers, 50 odd games and a global pandemic later, when fans finally return to the Vic it will be to watch a Premier League game again, almost as if our sojourn to the Championship never really happened.

For me, I’ve watched nigh on every minute of every game this season, something I’ve never been able to do before. That’s thanks to the lockdown, and Hive Live. I’ve really tapped into my connection with the club I support like never before. It sounds naff, but I’ve been on a bit of a journey – you could say – and now that we’re parking up, I don’t really want to get off. I know we’ve arrived at greener pastures, vindicated and successful, but it’s a chapter closing. And as chapters go, it was one of the best.

Norwich 0 Watford 1

Earn it. We sure did. You just have to take a look at Ken’s face in the 99th minute to know what it means when you do. You can’t get this level of feeling without competition. Unless there’s true sporting achievement or disaster looming, no-one will get fired up to this degree. If you can buy yourself a seat at the top table, the football pyramid suddenly looks like an irrelevancy, and a betrayal to all fans.

That’s why the so-called Big Six have all decided they’re withdrawing from the European Super League, announced to so much derision and disbelief earlier this week, now fatally choking on its own greed. It means the likes of Liverpool and Man City won’t get kicked out of the Premier League, their players potentially banned from European and International competition. Instead they’ll be coming to Vicarage Road for a game. And thanks to their back-tracking, we won’t need to don Earn It t-shirts like Leeds Utd and others this week designed to shame them into a U-turn.

Earning it feels like this. YEEAAAAHHSS!! I could kiss Ken’s fired-up battle-ready face. He’d won us a goal-kick eight and a half minutes into injury time, in a penalty area where Norwich players were dropping like pins at the mere suggestion of close proximity, let alone contact. It was all they had left and we were resolute, focused and professional enough to see it through. Ken’s tackle, and his reaction, pumped up the Watford faithful as it deflated vast sections of South Wales and West London. Now, I don’t just believe – I am convinced – we will be playing Premier League football in the 21/22 season. I will get to enjoy watching my son open his Panini stickers once again.

After a performance like this one, it takes no imagination to see us automatically promoted – as we will be. As poor as we were at Luton, we were magnificent in Norfolk. Xisco asked for a reaction – spurred on by more Sweet Caroline in the dressing room – and his team delivered. It delivered in the 1st and the 99th minute, and almost every minute inbetween. It delivered as a collective, and individually. It delivered us a double over the Championship’s most consistent side, their second home defeat on the trot. With tricky games coming up against QPR, Reading and Barnsley, and only five points clear, who’s to say we can’t pip them to the title they were hoping to clinch against us. Anything feels possible now.

Mathematically, nothing is yet resolved. But psychologically, we’ve won the race to automatic promotion, and I don’t believe this Watford team is not now capable of winning their next three games, such will be the bounce in their step. This was so massive – in terms of intent, intensity, desire and resilience. The chasing pack have just seen Usain Bolt pass them with 50 metres to run.

Swansea – beaten at home by QPR with an 89th minute winner – are now 9 points behind with nine to play for and a vastly inferior goal difference. They cannot now overhaul us. Brentford drew at home to Cardiff and are 10 points behind us with 12 on offer. So it is possible they can catch us, but they would need to beat both us and Bournemouth, win their other two games, and in the process hope we lose ours. Looking at the form book, this is in the realms of fantasy. Bournemouth too could pip us by a single point, but not even them and their hoodoo-acity should worry us now. Even one point against Millwall at home on Saturday, coupled with Bournemouth and Brentford drawing, (yes – they play each other!), would be enough. Sneeze, and we’re as good as promoted.

Back to Ken’s war-face. This was a beautiful mixture of ecstasy and relief. Ecstasy because we’d thrown off the Luton debacle, and relief because the type of performance we’d put in was now going to be rewarded with all three points. Until Ken’s late intervention, we couldn’t be sure. Look at how Reading had dominated us in our recent game but came away with nothing. Not only must you play well, and get ahead, but you need to doggedly refuse to concede and kill, like a rabid dog, before surrendering your bone. There was nothing lucky about this result, but you are never immune to a late sucker punch, and the later they come, the more they hurt.

With Kiko absent for this game due to suspension, and Ngakia not fully fit, I’d been mulling over a possible back line flanked by Navarro and Lazaar – which had been giving me hives. I could not see a way to keep Norwich out with such sub-standard players. I wondered if reverting to a back three might be the answer, but Xisco’s team selection did not let us down. Fortunately Masina had recovered from a hip complaint to take up his left-back role, with the ever dependable – and vastly experienced – Cathcart coming in as right-back. Gosling and Cleverly, together with Hughes, looked about as tenacious a midfield trio as you’d wish for. The armoured spears remained unchanged up top. A bench which boasted the talents of Chalobah and Zinckernagel was re-assuring.

Our first half-performance was perfect in almost every respect except one – we didn’t score. How we didn’t is three parts mystery, Hanley, and Krul. Norwich’s imposing centre-back Hanley was my man-of the-match. He got his head and body to virtually everything in a rear-guard masterclass. Krul, behind him, kept out the ball on the odd occasion Hanley could not intervene. It is no wonder Norwich have been promoted with five games to go, enjoying a centre-back/goalkeeper partnership like that.

Our dominance in the opening half, the first 15 minutes in particular, was total. It would be impossible to mention every moment of merit, so many were produced. The highlights reel for this one, like my report, will have to focus only on the best bits.

Several golden chances fell to Gosling, whose determination to get forward and apply attacking pressure was pronounced – as was his early profligacy. How pleasing, then, that it was the ex-Cherry whose goal would settle matters in the second half. All would be forgiven.

His first miss was in the 7th minute from a delicious Cathcart cross, affording him time and space to be more precise with a header 10 yards out. Sixty seconds later he fluffed his shot in the middle of the box from one of very many Sarr crosses. He should have hit the target but again couldn’t force a save from Krul. In the 13th minute he blazed a half-chance over the bar, but was criminally wasteful in the 32nd minute when Sarr sold Quintilla the wrong way and lay a perfect ball into his path on the edge of the area. He shaped to curl it into the top corner but once again missed the target.

Sarr was given a lot of time on the ball, but Norwich were doubling up on him. Rather than harry and press him out of the game, they allowed him to have a lot of possession in wide areas, hoping to cut out or clear any crosses. It was a dangerous ploy, as Sarr toyed with stand-in left-back Quintilla most of the half, and consistently put measured crosses into the box. With Pedro struggling to find space against the Norwich centre-backs, our £40 million pound man elected to pull-back crosses rather than whip them in, creating a number of good chances for others.

He easily could have had a penalty for a clash of legs with Quintilla in the 12th minute, on one of the many occasions he beat his man, and should have registered at least one goal in the half. His best chance came in the 35th minute in a move orchestrated by himself and Gosling. The latter fired a close pass to Ken Sema (ah the face!) who tamed it wickedly and blasted a low left-footer which Krul kept out diving full-length to his left. The ball came out to Sarr whose near-post follow-up had the sting taken out of it by a last-ditch tackle, but still required good goalkeeping reflexes to palm away.

Minutes before, Sarr had Cruyfed the ball from right to left foot, sitting Qunitilla on his pants, forcing Krul into a pretty regulation near-post save. But is was Sarr’s approach play, rather than his striking ability, that helped pin Norwich back.

He was given that luxury by heroic performances from Cleverley and Hughes, men on a mission to rob, steal and close down any yellow and green shirt in sight. It was a bit like whack-a-mole out there, our guys wielding the mallet. Choking supply to the quality triumvirate of Buendia, Cantwell and Pukki was non-negotiable, and apart from some isolated forays forward, they were well shackled.

Buendia had to wait until the 24th minute to get any possession which he used to good effect, running strongly at the heart of our defence, leading to Hughes felling Pukki on the edge of the box (earning our man his obligatory yellow). If Pukki had been allowed to settle into the game he would have squared to an unmarked Cantwell but Hughes made sure he didn’t. Norwich mustered a few corners, a few free-kicks, a couple of deflected shots, but Bachmann was not troubled.

Defensively, we were superb, to a man. Sierralta deserves a chance in the Premier League, and will already, no doubt, be attracting suitors from so-called bigger clubs. He couples fearless intensity with no-nonsense decision-making, and he takes most of the credit for another clean sheet. Troost-Ekong is much less consistent, but his partnership with Sierralta is pivotal, and the Nigerian’s contribution to our mental toughness both on and off the pitch cannot be under-estimated. It was at William’s instigation that the senior players met to knock some heads after the Coventry game. And we all know what the response has been ever since.

It was Troost-Ekong who was involved in our first key moment of the second half, pinging a long diagonal to Masina whose left-footed cross led to a Sema header down to Sarr, who shot over the bar whilst falling. His was the tackle in the 55th minute that deflected a Todd Cantwell effort which finally forced Bachmann into action, saving low. Shortly after Cleverly had two thumping drives blocked by man mountain Hanley and his titanium head. It felt like a breakthrough was coming, as much as it felt this wouldn’t be our day.

But then the breakthrough came, down to a lot of sheer bloody-mindedness. Sema refused to give up possession, and toed the ball off a Norwich defender when he paused to appeal to the ref for a foul. He should have known better – the ref was giving virtually nothing that was in any way soft – so Ken poked the ball loose. Hungry black shirts, like Hungry Hippos after those whizzing balls, chomped to regain possession. Cleverley got the defining touch, with help from Gosling, to nick the ball to Pedro. As Pedro eyed up needles through haystacks, Gosling peeled into the centre-forward position and joyfully connected with the 19 year-old’s inch perfect through ball, letting the ball run across his body and tapping in with his right instep. The celebrations were a fierce outpouring of joyful emotion. My face had gone all Ken. It inkensified* upon hearing Cardiff had just taken the lead at Brentford.

The sheer effort to get ahead led to our only wobbly period, too much adrenalin pumping. Sierralta slid in on Pukki at the corner-flag, Quintilla testing Bachmann’s handling from the free-kick. The Austrian then hit a clearance straight to Buendia in a collective – oh no! – moment, but the danger was smothered. Aarons surged past Masina and played square to Cantwell who lashed over. Cleverly soon lunged in on the same player earning a caution with 25 mins still to play. At the other end Hanley blocked a Sarr cross destined for Pedro, then stuck his granite face into a sumptuous Hughes volley which would have broken any ordinary mortal’s nose.

Substitutions worked in our favour – again. Daniel Farke introduced the feisty Hugill for Dowell, looking to unsettle us with a more physical presence up top, and some much needed support for an impotent Pukki. But Hugill’s combative demeanour did not unsettle us so much as the entire game, and as the play faltered and stuttered to a conclusion, it suited us. Cathcart welcomed him with an accidental headbutt, but it was Sierralta who was left to dish out – and receive – the rest of the punishment.

Our subs, Chalobah and Gray, brought more quality and experience, respectively. Chalobah was welcomed to the game by a clearly frustrated McClean who cynically trod on his foot, deservedly carded. But Nate, given the captain’s armband, gave a captain’s last 20. It’s an old expression, but he was as cool as a cucumber and nothing is cooler than that. Simple touches to make space, an imperious swagger, and ownership of the turf.

He played Gray through in the 76th minute, a quicker shot might have produced a second goal and stopped Hanley (who else) from tackling back. Whilst Chalobah was alert and efficient, Sarr was becoming a little too relaxed and languid, losing possession on several occasions when possession was to be coveted, once kicking the ball out attempting to play a whipped pass back when a simpler choice would have kept us the ball.

There were some hairy moments in the closing minutes. Chaos in the 79th minute as our box became a pinball machine, Cleverley’s head inadvertently sending the ball back into the danger zone. Hernandez, Placheta and Vrancic were all introduced as Norwich went for broke. Hernandez’s first contribution was to fall over in the box after an incisive run. He should have been booked for simulation, as should Buendia for a similar cheat as Zinckernagel, another late sub, stood in close, bemused attendance, as the Argentinian’s legs inexplicably buckled beneath him. A counter attack was always on the cards as Norwich switched to three at the back and piled forwards, using Hugill as a target. A loose Aarons ball nearly allowed Gray to find Sarr, and Sema and Zinckernagel rinsed every muscle to chase Norwich into defensive areas, winning precious corners.

In the 89th minute, Kabasele’s first touch since replacing Cathcart was to block a cross at the expense of a corner. With the 4th official showing 7 minutes of injury time, we were not out of the woods just yet. But aside from the spurious penalty appeals, Norwich only threatened once more, when a loose ball ran to Vrancic who fired in from 12 yards out. Three players converged on the ball, Hughes getting the telling touch, but it epitomised our spirit and tenacity right to the bitter end. By the time Ken had put an end to dancing Canary feet in our box with his most judicious of prodded tackles, the game was finally beyond the home side.

The Premier League will welcome back Norwich with open arms. They are a mostly honest bunch with a good footballing philosophy and are a very stably and ably managed outfit. Delia is, like Elton, a nice bit of celebrity juice to squirt on all the top-flight chit-chat. We’ll welcome them too, as they are odds-on to give us another six points which we’ll certainly need back in the big time. It’s now four occasions we’ve put Farke’s side to the sword, and it’s great to be somebody else’s bogey side. We’ve got 85 points, and might end up with 94. Next season, 40 will be the aim again. Less fun, perhaps, but each point immeasurably precious.

Some would say I’m booking the hotel before reaching the final, but I’ll remain unreservedly unapologetic. I just can’t see a way back for any other team now. I say, let the team stay 100% focused. I’m going to enjoy the rest of this season on cloud-bloody-nine.

*Trademark

Luton 1 Watford 0

I’ve never before seen a Watford team take the field from the gents’ toilets. Luton were obviously not going to roll out the red carpet for their closest rivals, but still, having us emerge from the pitch-side bogs was a little disrespectful. Given our subsequent performance, a little apt too.

It’s clear to see we’re a good footballing side, but we don’t like a scrap. If there’s a fight to be had, we tend to go into our shell rather than roll our sleeves up. Bournemouth duffed us up, and now Luton harried us senseless, both determined to get the better of us by sheer force.

There are a few key reasons we lost today, and so because I like a list, with all its promise of finding order in chaos, here they are in bullet-point fashion – enjoy:

  1. We have not respected the rivalry with Luton. Simply put, we have other teams who have proven to be larger thorns in our sides in recent years, and Luton have fallen down the pecking order. Being dismissed, even somewhat unintentionally by your traditional enemy, must hurt a little.
  2. The pitch. Great for a fight, but not for slick passing. Bobbly as hell.
  3. Complacency. We were all wary of this game, but none of us really thought we’d lose. We’d not have accepted a draw before the game, and until the 78th minute, three points were still there for the taking. Tommy Mooney’s commentary – wonderfully biased – portrayed Luton as a team of half-wits who didn’t have a footballing neuron between them. He described one of their centre-halves as not the sharpest knife in the toolbox. Tommy was voicing what we were all thinking – we can’t lose to this uncultured lot can we?
  4. Adam Masina. Injured in the warm-up, and replaced by Achraf Lazaar. His would be the defining contribution.
  5. Contrasting motivations. Luton had absolutely nothing to play for except to stick one on us. For their entire fanbase, this was perhaps the only opportunity for a generation of fans to have local bragging rights. An empty stadium should have worked in our favour, but it didn’t. The Luton boys played their hearts and guts out for the win, and probably couldn’t give two hoots about winning any of their remaining matches. If they manage to scupper our return to the premiership, job most certainly, most incredibly, done. We wanted the points, of course, but we’re not scrapping for every point. Had the gap to third been one or two points, perhaps we’d have seen a different kind of performance today.

Kenilworth Road is a shabby stadium, a bit like the Vic in its prior skin. Our relative decade of success, contrasted to Luton’s relative demise, is writ large in the architecture. Our place has been improved, filled-in, lovingly enhanced. The condemned bits have gone, the pitch can rival the greens of Augusta. Luton’s place, whilst not quite a bombsite, is how things could have been without the Pozzos.

As if to emphasise this was more battleground than pitch, the smoke from an orange flare drifted past the players lined up to remember the Duke of Edinburgh, whose recent passing has seen an outpouring of admiration for a man of such constancy, unmitigated self-assuredness, and unwavering support to both Queen and country. Today’s kick-offs were brought forward to 12:30pm so that the nation could tune in at 3pm to witness his self-orchestrated, uncompromising, and most touching of funerals. It was fitting, and consoling, that the 3pm kick-off was reserved for the most important event of the day. It put losing three points to Luton in its proper place, filed away swiftly in the best-forgotten segment of one’s long-term memory.

As such, I don’t really want to relive the game – so I’m minded to keep this as brief and upbeat as possible. On a positive note, this game is now behind us, and perhaps we won’t need to play Luton again for another few decades. Both Swansea and Brentford dropped two points with home draws against opposition they would have expected to beat – Wycombe and Millwall respectively. Andre Ayew, Swansea’s talisman, was subbed after nine minutes due to injury, and you can’t help but think his absence will really impact such a low-scoring side.

Norwich were the big beneficiaries from those results, gaining promotion to the Premier League. We play them on Tuesday night and may encounter a slightly less combative Canaries as a result, especially as their later game against Bournemouth saw them expend a lot of energy playing most of it with 10 men, succumbing to a very long-in-the-coming 3-1 home defeat. Hopefully we’ll arrive like the proverbial second bus and make it a double sucker punch. Norwich will want to beat us to claim the title, which may play into our hands as the only team that can de-throne them. Other positives are harder to come by, but at least we didn’t suffer any injuries, and we’ll be able to bounce back quickly if we get a decent (i.e any) result at Carrow Road.

This game was so unlike us. We ended up without a shot on target, and had less possession than our opponents. With Chalobah presumably injured, Sanchez had defensive midfield responsibilities from the off, and the more advanced Hughes the armband. Our procession from the toilets down onto the smoky pitch was just the start of it. After 10 minutes, we had just about weathered an early Luton onslaught. An Adebayo header forced a 2nd minute corner from which Bradley fired over. Ruddock blazed one across the six-yard line, then Dewsbury-Hall and Naismith both forced corners, Bradley heading over with Sierralta challenging well. Luke Berry swung a dangerous ball into the corridor which the Chilean wisely left to beat the far post.

The next 10 minutes were slightly better in that we weren’t completely under the cosh, but still, Naismith almost scored from a Dewsbury-Hall free-kick conceded by Sema in the 19th minute, his header inches wide. Dewsbury-Hall again threatened, his shot drilled narrowly wide of Bachmann’s right hand post, and shortly after he was to whip a curling effort just the other side of the Austrian’s left-hand upright.

Lazaar is *a bit* of a loose cannon, but did his defensive duties pretty well for most of the game. Going forward his shooting and passing are erratic, if we’re going to be generous, and we definitely missed Adam Masina’s cool head and cross-field distribution. Lazaar was there to help shepherd a dangerous looking cross into Bachmann’s grasp in the 27th minute, but a minute later massively overhit a cross to the far post.  Sierralta and Troost-Ekong did very little wrong in this game, but it was our inability to utilise our forward weapons that really hurt us.

In the 29th minute, Bradley received a yellow for tugging back an anonymous Sarr, but we didn’t really give him, or his fellow defenders, cause to make any desperate tackles after that. The free-kick afforded us was our first toe-hold in this game, after half an hour, but summed things up. Zinckernagel, somehow unmarked and in acres of space, received the ball from Hughes but tamely passed it into the keeper’s hands.

We’d played so much of the game without the ball, we weren’t at the races in possession. Instead, Ruddock, Lua Lua and Dewsbury-Hall continued to threaten our goal, Clark getting crosses in, Bree, Pearson and Bradley winning fifty-fifties, Bachmann needing to be alert. Luton appealed for several penalties amidst chaos in our box, Sanchez just doing enough to clear the danger without infringing.

Towards half-time, Hughes almost profited from some great hold-up play from Pedro, but the bobble of the pitch seemed to beat him and there was to be nothing to cheer about all game for the birthday boy. Zinckernagel was withdrawn at the break, perhaps with bruised ribs following an earlier collision, with Isaac Success his replacement. A goal here, and he might write himself into Watford folk-lore. Instead, he made very little impact on proceedings, and a scrappy second half passed him by.

Ten minutes in, we mustered a couple of quarter-chances, after Sema jostled to the by-line and fed Hughes – his mis-hit effort found Pedro whose shot was blocked. In the 61st minute Hughes sauntered forwards but the crucial through-ball hit Success’ heels and the promising situation broke down. Immediately Bachmann was down smartly to smother a Lua Lua cross.

In the 62nd minute Hughes replaced Sanchez in the holding role, as Tom Cleverly entered the fray after a seven-game absence due to injury. The stage was set for Watford’s number 8 to whip up some enthusiasm from the boys in yellow, but not even his introduction could jump-start the bus. After Naismith blasted a free-kick out of the stadium, we earned our first corner in the 69th minute, which came to nothing. Cleverly did have a shot, well-wide, in the 70th minute.

Shortly after, Adebayo had several presentable chances; one bounced up high from a free-kick which he spooned over, another he attempted to scissor kick with no great aptitude, the ball spinning onto his arm. But before he limped off, his final contribution would be telling.

Luton continued in lively fashion. Kiko drew a yellow for a shove on Lua Lua in the 72nd minute, the Spaniard clearly frustrated by the amount of chasing back he was having to do. Bree’s shot from the resultant free-kick was tipped over by a busy Bachmann, Sierralta bravely clearing the subsequent corner. Our clearances were simply meat and drink for the Luton defence, absolutely nothing was sticking. This was just the kind of match a certain Troy Deeney would probably have turned in our favour.

Tommy Mooney could tell the game was getting away from us. As he shifted from be-patient-and-we’ll-win-this, to what-we-mustn’t-do-is-lose, Lazaar played a woefully short back pass which Bachmann rushed to the edge of his area to clear. Adebayo was much quicker to the ball than Dan, who scythed the Luton striker down for a stonewall pen. Our keeper was convinced a red card was coming, grabbed his bottle from the back of the net, and looked bemused to find only a yellow brandished. Back between the sticks he was helpless to stop Collins – subbed on specifically to take the spot kick – rolling it calmly into the bottom right corner. Sierralta managed to get a caution too for roughing up the penalty spot, a vain attempt to hinder the passage of ball into net.

We reacted a smidge to going behind, Sierralta chesting down an 85th minute corner and swinging a shot into a Luton body. With three of the ninety left, Kiko couldn’t help himself pushing Lua Lua in the back as he sped to the flank, a second yellow, and hence a red card, the unhappy result. Only late sub Andre Gray – ex-Luton striker – came close to levelling things up, his 90th minute header ruled out for what must have been a tight offside. But a point would have grossly flattered us. And so we trudged back to the men’s loos, a man, and three points, light.

The only thing worse than our performance today was that of the replay director on Hive Live. Every other foul was played back to us in slow-mo whilst the action, whether noteworthy or not, continued, unseen. It didn’t matter if a promising counter, or corner were happening, we were going to focus instead on an irrelevant tangle of legs from multiple angles. The one time we wanted a replay – Gray’s disallowed goal – it didn’t come at all.

Well, we’ve got this one out of our system. We’ll never have to replay this match again, and hopefully it will be an utter irrelevancy come the end of the season if we get promoted. If we’d drawn tonight, with others winning, they’d have clawed back two points on us. As it turned out, they gained only one.

Even if we stutter, and flail, only a modest return from the last four games will be enough. Millwall are Luton-lite, and we’ve got them at our place in our next home game. Norwich won’t be fully focused on Tuesday night. Brentford and Swansea are in poor form, and it may even be that this won’t all go down to the final minutes, on the final day of the season. But then it again, it just jolly well might!

Watford 2 Reading 0

This Friday night, under the lights, will be remembered for two scintillating Sarr goals. Scored in the 12th and 14th minutes, they gave us an early cushion which was enough to see the game through. They made Reading tear up their game plan and come out to attack us. No other team has had as many shots at our goal as the Royals did in this game, several of which looked destined to register. Our opponents played with the shackles off, and nothing to lose, testing our mettle, and luck, both of which held. To win this game they needed three, knowing that we had not conceded more than two in any game all season. Their efforts were gallant, but in the end they simply ran out of steam.

We fielded an unchanged eleven – for the fourth time in six games – needing 13 points to guarantee promotion. In reality, 10 points, maybe less – so three in this game would be huge. Reading’s boss Veljko Paunovic elected to leave Joao, their top scorer, on the bench, opting for Puscas – a more physical presence perhaps – up top. It was Puscas who’d netted against us in Reading’s victory back in October, and he was to rattle the woodwork in this one. Early leaders of the Championship, the Royals were now facing dropping out of the top six if they lost, and Bournemouth won on Saturday. Much at stake for both sides.

Before the opening goal, we’d shown our strengths and weaknesses. Reading’s keeper was called into action in the 3rd minute to rush out ahead of Sarr, with their newly-instated left-back Gibson ball watching. Then from a Bachmann punt, Sarr chested down nicely to Pedro who shot from a tight angle. We were already showing a cutting edge, but there were nerves on display too. Troost-Ekong played a hospital pass to Sierralta, nearly getting his fellow centre-back in trouble, before the Chilean himself played an uncharacteristically sloppy ball straight to Ejaria.

Quality trumped nerves, thanks to some world class striking. Chalobah and Femenia kept the ball alive and fed Sarr to the right edge of Reading’s box. With great composure he rolled the ball onto his left foot, and curled a wonderful strike into the far left of the goal, their keeper without a chance. As our players mobbed the Senagalese wide-man, he raised a half salute, hand on the brow, as if looking far into the distance. That will be the Premier League, with or without Watford, the stage which he will rightfully grace next year. If he is in a yellow shirt, rather than the red of United or Liverpool, we’ll be fortunate. He has already shown incredible grit and resilience to ride out the relegation season, and is now a far better prospect on the transfer market. He’s a loyal lad though, so just maybe he’ll stay for one more season if we make it.

If his 11th goal this season was measured and artfully despatched, his 12th, two minutes later, was a thunderous rocket. Captain Chalobah involved again, winning the ball back high up the pitch and feeding Zinckernagel. He carried the ball forward and played Sarr in just inside the penalty area on the right. He timed his stride to hit the thing, and hit it he did – it seared into the roof of the net leaving a tear in the time-space continuum. In this kind of form he makes the outstanding look easy.

After these two incredible minutes, the emphasis shifted almost entirely towards Reading. They have a bunch of very talented attacking players who now had a license to try to salvage anything from the wreckage – and their rescue attempt was valiant. For the remainder of the first half they ran us semi-ragged, pushing us back and putting our defence under considerable pressure. It didn’t help that Zinckernagel was yellow carded on 17 minutes, meaning he had to pull out of a host of fifty-fifty balls which allowed the likes of Ejaria, Olise and Meite to run more confidently at us in possession. Shortly before half-time, Xisco was waving an imaginary card at Zinckernagel, presumably to remind him to stay out of trouble. He would have to stand off out of possession and make it count with the ball at his feet.

The 18th minute saw Meite charge into our box, but he was run wide by good pressure from Troost-Ekong. Shortly after Olise whipped in a dangerous ball that Masina headed out for a corner. In the 26th minute Meite’s overhit cross was quickly matched by Sarr’s underhit one at the other end. The following fifteen minutes were to be Reading’s best. Laurent struck fiercely from 30 yards out which Bachmann got down well to clutch on the bounce. Then an uncharacteristic mix-up between Chalo and Hughes allowed the same player to drag his shot wide from the edge of the box.

In the 33rd minute Puscas rattled our right-hand post, with Troost-Ekong once again in close attendance. Olise showed a bit of magic to ride challenges in midfield, before carrying the ball forward with great skill, beating Masina and laying off a pass to Meite on the right. His cross took a small deflection off a sliding Masina limb which may have been enough to cause Puscas to miss.

My biggest cheer of the night came just after the Puscas miss, when Masina’s wicked cross was poked into the net by an onrushing Sarr. I really wanted that to count – not just to relieve the pressure, and put the game to bed, but to give Sarr his first hat-trick in Watford colours. He was inches offside, so the effort was rightly chalked off. Sarr then pounced to snatch possession in his own half, playing up to Pedro, but he fell over before he could release Chalobah. It felt like we could kill the game at any minute, but until we did, Reading were very much in the ascendancy.

In the 40th minute Laurent took advantage of Chalobah switching off momentarily to carry the ball right to the edge of the six-yard box. From the acutest of angles, he nevertheless forced Bachmann to use a leg and an arm to repel the danger. Boasting 78% possession in the last ten minutes, Reading were cranking it up a notch.

In the 45th minute Ejaria waltzed through and hit Troost-Ekong with a shot, Gibson firing the rebound well over. Troost-Ekong then gifted a ball to Meite, playing carelessly across goal 20 yards out. Meite broke strongly onto the misplaced pass, beat Sierralta, and then fired his shot just wide of the near post and high into the side netting. Bachmann made himself big, but Meite went for the wrong corner. The half finished with Bachmann making another save, this time from the right-back Yiadom, Sierralta getting in to block a follow-up side-shot.

Fine, fine margins, and two glorious chances wasted by Reading. Great encouragement, in one sense, but at the same time devastating not to take such presentable chances. Had they had a Sarr in their ranks, it could easily have been 2-2 at half-time. But Meite didn’t shoot across the keeper, and Puscas couldn’t angle his shot inside the post. Reading were missing good chances, whilst we had nailed a coupe of half-chances at best. Expected Goals said it all – Watford 0.29 v Reading 1.45.

“They” say a lot of things in football – such as 2-0 is a dangerous score line. It’s a cliché whose element of truth lies in the psychology of managing a comfortable, but not unassailable lead. At 2-0, no doubt we became less intense, less expansive, and more containing. Reading on the other hand played on the front foot, with freedom to express themselves and attack. One counter-attacking goal would have sealed it at any moment, and very nearly did, but one Reading goal would have probably led to a swift second. Stick, or twist. We stuck, they twisted – but couldn’t unravel our lead.

We came out in the second half with a new captain in Hughes. Chalobah, having sustained a knock colliding with Bachmann towards the end of the first half, was replaced by Sanchez. This is the first time, I think, I have realised Sanchez’s true potential in this squad. He’s come on to help see games out before, but this time his introduction was for a whole half, needing to tame some very lively and skilful opponents champing at the bit. With Chalobah off, Zinckernagel on a yellow, and Sanchez vastly experienced but not exactly match sharp, I could sniff trouble. However, after a couple of roastings by the Reading playmakers, he quickly found his rhythm and began to close down space.

Sanchez occupied Hughes’ defensive midfield position, Will taking up Chalobah’s empty berth in a more attacking role. As Sanchez’s proficiency in this role became clearer as the half wore on, it was a joy to see Hughes causing trouble in the opponent’s half. With both Hughes and Sanchez stifling and reading the play so well, we began to clog up the Reading machine.

The first 10 minutes of the second half were a stalemate, suiting us perfectly. Rinomhota’s frustrations were clear as he took Sarr’s heels away for a yellow card in the 56th minute. Adam Masina’s cross-field distribution is being employed to ever greater effect, and his raking passes out to Sarr or Kiko on the opposite flank really do propel us into instant threatening positions. Kiko received one in the 59th minute and Liam Moore needed to be alive to send his cross out for a corner. On the occasions where Sanchez’s pace was found wanting, exposed by Olise and Ejaria, other men in yellow would be racing back to swamp the threat. A blind Reading back-pass almost let Pedro in to finish the contest. Reading needed to change something.

Omar Richards and Lucas Joao entered the fray in minute 64, shortly before Troost-Ekong, injured in tackling a free-flowing Ejaria, made way for Craig Cathcart. From the resulting free-kick Olise struck the ball sweetly, but straight at our Austrian stopper, who swiftly engineered a counter-attack. Hughes fed Masina whose pile-driver cross must have given Zinckernagel whiplash as he craned to get his head onto it, to no avail.

The Dane’s non-stop endeavour and running was a thing to admire. Shortly after this futile, but spirited attempt to tame a missile of a cross, he was back robbing Meite of possession in his own box with Masina still stranded up field. A minute later and he was shooting at the Reading sticks again, his effort blocked. A proper box-to-box masterclass, with an assist to boot, and all whilst negotiating an early yellow card.

Hughes picked up his almost obligatory yellow card hauling back Olise who threatened to escape down the flank, still in his own half. By means fair and foul we were closing out the game with a measure of control, even if the final result was still in the balance. Pedro’s late elbow on the back of Holmes’ head went unseen, and unpunished, although replays suggest he will be lucky not to get a retrospective ban. His arm was high on Holme’s back, but a late and separate movement looked like a deliberate attempt to catch his man. Xisco immediately withdrew the Brazilian.

Gray and Success came on with barely 10 to go, a proper handful for any defence in the latter stages of a game. Their physicality and speed were the perfect foil to a now stuttering and waning Reading performance. Good chances had come and gone, and now fatigue appeared to be their biggest hurdle, although they continued to be competitive in every area.

Zinckernagel blasted a presentable chance high and not-so-handsomely over, and Sanchez had an effort from range a metre-wide of the upright. Sanchez and Moore competed at speed for a loose ball in the middle, both men giving no quarter, and neither, fortunately, sustaining any injury. A frenetic end to the game ensued, Omar Richards slicing over from a Reading free-kick, Sarr almost grabbing his hat-trick again with a neat attempt from a Sierralta header, nudged wide of the post by a defender’s leg. A whisker away from three.

Reading’s last roll of the dice introduced Baldock and Aluko to good effect. Aluko’s crisp shot in the 89th minute went through a sea of legs but Bachmann fell to the ground quickly to gather. In injury-time it was Sanchez coming round on the cover who stole the ball off Baldock’s toes just as he was about to shoot. Success earned a yellow for time-wasting, whilst Gray’s poor touch on a promising breakaway was a good opportunity wasted at the death.

The last meaningful action saw Baldock fire across the six-yard area for Meite to stab well wide. It was a tired effort from a now very jaded Reading team who had given their all. But scoring against Watford is a tough ask – this was our 20th clean sheet of the campaign, only one away from being our second best in history. It would be a tough ask to equal our best ever haul of shut-outs – set in 1968/69 by Ken Furphy’s team – we’d need five clean sheets in our final five games to match the 25 blanks they kept.

I felt a little giddy after this one. 12 points clear in second, having defeated some quality opposition, with only five games to go and our star man rising. By Saturday afternoon, having seen Brentford hit 5, Bournemouth 4, Swansea 3, Barnsley 2 and Norwich 1 – all gaining maximum points – some much needed caution was creeping back in again. It was a countdown-worthy reality check to see all the top sides winning, and our rivals so suddenly revitalised with goals.

So nothing is earned just yet, even if we’re getting tantalisingly close. Unless we suffer a calamitous dip in form, then automatic promotion will be ours.

What a time to bring on the Luton.

Middlesbrough 1 Watford 1

It was all tee’d up on Teeside. An unnecessary tackle in a dangerous area late in the game. A set-piece expert talked up by the commentary team who has yet to deliver. An ex-Palace danger man suddenly introduced from the bench. Minute 78: Ken Sema’s tackle; Paddy McNair’s delivery; Yannick Bolasie’s headed finish. Sometimes you see it all in hindsight. Other times events unfold in front of your eyes like Deja vu. I didn’t just see this one coming, I’d written the script in my head. I’d felt it in my bones.

Not winning is an uncomfortable feeling, thankfully an unusual one for us in our current form. If Boro hadn’t grabbed a late and thoroughly deserved equaliser, we would have been 11 wins out of 12, and seven wins on the trot. All winning streaks have to end somewhere, so I suppose a point away at a decent Middlesbrough side isn’t the worst way to mess it up. Swansea losing again in injury time makes this point look a lot better than it did at 3pm on Easter Monday.

But we’ve been riding our luck of late with contested goals, taking all three points from close matches. And we’ve not had any of the usual banana skins of serious injury, early red cards, or calamitous own goals to contend with – although they could all yet click around on the wheel of Championship misfortune. Our previous promotion campaign – acting as a bit of a barometer for all of us – saw us take 4 points from 6 across the Easter weekend in 2014/15, including an incredible 2-2 comeback draw against Derby which, as we were down to 10 men for a large part of the game, felt like a win. It was 4 points from 6 again, but this time around, losing the lead instead of a man, it felt like a loss.

Chalobah’s lunge on Sam Morsy was the kind of borderline reckless challenge that could have resulted in a red card, with a different ref, on a different day. If that had been in an England shirt at the World Cup, for instance, Chalo would’ve been walking. In his defence he took the ball, the whole ball, etc, and although his legs were fully extended, showing some studs, there were not too many complaints from the men in red. Nate’s 11th yellow card was the right colour, but edges him a little nearer to 15 which, if accumulated in the next four games would rule him out of the last, potentially crucial, fixtures against Brentford and Swansea. We can only hope they’ll be dead rubbers by the time they come around in early May.

Chalobah’s lunging tackle ended Morsy’s involvement in the game before the half-hour mark. It was the one moment of absolute commitment displayed by anyone on the field up to that point. In a way, it’s what you need the captain to do. His rush of adrenalin, and a full-blooded tackle executed just within acceptable margins, was a spark, and you could argue the catalyst for a goal which followed minutes after Boro’s number 5 had limped off the park.

The host’s game plan, as you’d expect from an old-timer like Neil ‘Colin’ Warnock, was to mark us tight in key areas, hoping to get something on the counter, or from a set-piece. The Kiko/Sarr axis down the right wing was always outnumbered, Sema could find no wriggle room down the left, whether or not Pedro or Masina was in support. Warnock’s charges overloaded the wide areas when we attacked down the flanks, and made it congested in the middle of the park. The only space afforded us seemed to be in our own half, where Sierralta and Troost-Ekong strung endless sideways passes as they nudged up the pitch inch by inch.

Initially this looked promising – Boro didn’t seem to want to press us too high, and our centre-halves were operating in acres of green space. But their forward passing options were virtually non-existent. So time and again the ball would end up with Kiko chipping one hopefully down the flank, or Sierralta carrying the ball deep into Boro territory, looking for a more incisive pass through the middle.

Warnock’s plan to nullify us was extremely effective. He doesn’t always have the rub of the green against Watford, having lost his last five encounters with three different clubs. But he was a manager even before ours was born, and with eight promotions under his belt over 41 years, and 40 previous encounters against the hornets, he’s got plenty of experience to draw from. Post-match, Neil’s assessment was that Watford would be walking into the Premiership. I do hope his wise old head is right about that.

It’s OK to talk the talk, as Warnock is famed for, but it’s about walking the walk, to max up the cliché factor. Well, there was plenty of walking in this game. It was a sedate affair. After 20 minutes my notes say QUIET. Were the teams just feeling each other out? Probably. We were very comfortable in possession (all 71% of it at this stage), but unable to do anything with it. We’d mustered two efforts on goal, a Zinckernagel pop deflected over in the 10th minute, followed by a Sema shot, blocked by Fisher with no corner given. Boro were so focused on containment, they offered virtually nothing going forwards, although Masina was in the right place to cut out a dangerous looking Spence cross moments before our captain’s crunching tackle on Morsy.

Our 32nd minute goal was lucky in several respects. One, because Zinckernagel’s shot appeared to brush his left arm as he controlled the ball, and two, because the ball bounced off a static Sarr’s toes deflecting it wide of a committed Bettinelli. Boro’s players, almost to a man, started barking up the wrong tree, claiming Sarr was offside, when in fact he had been played on by two defenders, Spence and Fisher, too slow to get back as the Dane struck from the edge of the box. The build-up to the goal came from some trademark Pedro tenacity and skill. He tamed a shanked clearance into the box, setting up Sema for a fierce left-footer which Bettinelli did well to parry, before a defender half-cleared out to a lurking Zinckernagel.

We deserved the goal for showing some attacking endeavour, conspicuously absent from our opponent’s game. But the goal did spur them into life, with their game-plan fractured, if not exactly broken by our goal. Kebano was more lively, and after a neat twist or two sent a cross into our box, albeit overhit. They grew stronger as the half wore on, winning a series of corners. Lengthy periods of treatment, to Morsy and later, Sema, meant 7 additional minutes to negotiate. Every Boro ball into our box met a Watford head, be it Chalobah, Hughes or Pedro. Sierralta was sliding in to block crosses, or thumping them – no-nonsense – into the empty stands.

Several counter attacking opportunities fizzled out, one after some delightful ball juggling by Chalobah to beat his man, although too often Pedro was found on his heels, our passing game slightly off. From one late Boro cross, Bachmann clutched gratefully from Spence’s lobbed dink back to the far post from a tight angle. Troost-Ekong was guilty of playing a few careless forward balls when other routes were blocked, inviting more pressure. Boro finished the half with a corner, and we were the happier by far to hear Tim Robertson’s whistle.

So the warning signs were there. We had the goal, but weren’t doing nearly enough to prize open the Boro defence. The second half continued in much the same vein. It was all becoming a bit Iviccy – that is to say we looked like we were banking on another clean sheet to get the three points. It seemed likely that such a ploy would be enough, if lady luck continued her benign influence on our play. The lady was certainly smiling on us when Watmore stuck the ball into our net in the 50th minute. Saville’s header from a Bola cross was on target before it struck the clearly offside Watmore, who turned it in past Bachmann to no avail. The linesman’s flag saved the prospect of an 11th clean sheet in 18 appearances for the Austrian, who was soon to be clattered in the 60th minute as Fisher piled in to contest a lofted ball. Big Dan absorbed the impact, and after another delay, the game resumed.

I never doubted we’d hold on for three points until the introduction of Bolasie. In fact, we had a little period of sustained pressure from around minute 60, with Sarr slinking to the by-line and teeing up Pedro for a fierce snapshot just wide of the near post. A corner followed, then a Chalobah cross which Masina rescued at the corner flag. Pedro worked hard to recycle the ball out to Sarr, culminating in another blocked Zinckernagel shot. By the time Bolasie was stood by the technical area waiting to come on, we’d just produced our best flowing move of the day, with Sarr feeding Zinckernagel, who found Sema, laying a perfect ball into Pedro’s path who opened up his body to fire inches wide of the far post. That was more like it.

But the substitutions had an instant impact. Once Akpom and Bolasie were introduced, we took our foot off the pedal and sat in. Boro’s new impetus had Xisco concerned, and within minutes he’d subbed Zinckernagel for Gosling, another indication that we just wanted to shore things up.

Yannick Bolasie, once the right half of Palace’s fearful attacking symmetry, mirrored by Wilfried Zaha – our old foe – on the left, looked like he wanted to hurt us. Attacking is in his DNA, just like his ex-colleague Zaha, so sitting off was about the worst thing we could do.

Bolasie, surely not, I thought. How far his star has waned since a high-profile switch to Everton. How on earth has his career trajectory landed him here, at this moment, about to take the pitch against us, with all his ex-Palace jinxery and chicanery? I simply wrote his name on the sheet, followed by one exclamation, and one question mark. BOLASIE!? It was an invitation for fate to trump luck.

If I half expected then, by the time he’d equalised 6 minutes after coming on, I was in full anticipation mode. A couple of early touches showed us his intent, as we tensed up. A free-kick from Paddy McNair in the 74th minute ended in a scuffed half-chance for Boro. Don Goodman, commentating for Sky, was talking up the Northern Irishman’s set-piece proficiency, only to be underwhelmed by his execution. Paddy had taken part in all three of his country’s internationals during the break, so perhaps this was fatigue? Don’t you believe it. Then the 75th minute, and Masina’s foul on Coulson gives McNair another chance. Ominously this time, although the free-kick comes to nothing, Bolasie gets his head to the ball first. We’re giving McNair plenty of chance to find his range.

Lady luck could do nothing to intervene when Sema’s decision-making was found wanting. Facing his own goal, 30 yards out near the touchline, the Swede inexplicably tried to play his way out of trouble between two Boro players, rather than hoofing it clear. A poor first touch surrendered possession and tempted him to lunge in to retrieve the lost ball. Cue McNair’s suddenly sumptuous delivery curling at pace towards the back post into a crowd of onrushing heads. Cue Bolasie’s head being the one that made contact, inexplicably finding space between Sierralta and Troost-Ekong for the crucial touch. Knew it.

In full Ivic mode, this was now ours to lose – somehow – Boro having scored with their 1st shot on target. Bolasie remained a threat, winning another corner in the 81st minute, but you sensed Boro had ‘come’ for a draw and were reasonably happy with a point, belying their play-off ambitions. Warnock said after the game they treated this one like an away fixture. Instead of the home team full of possession, trying to break down a counter-attacking away team, roles were reversed at the Riverside. And honours, in the final analysis, were even.

Our late introduction of Success for Sema at least gave them something new to think about, and the Nigerian made some good contributions. But once we’d been pegged back, a draw was the best we could hope for. Naturally, a disappointing result, given how close we were to all three. Although we remain 10 points clear in second, Warnock has shown others how we can be nullified. After another Swansea defeat, all eyes now turn to Brentford, only four points behind us if they win their games in hand, with us to play. There can be no more daydreaming about overtaking Norwich – not now. The prize is too delicious, too momentous, to take our eye off the ball.

I refuse to panic, but I do admit to having plenty of background jitters. Even if we were in Norwich’s position, I’d still be working out all the possible ways in which we could be undone. And it really isn’t going to be straight-forward. There are six games to go, four of which are against top six sides (against whom our record is not convincing), one against tough opponents in Millwall, and another against, historically, our most bitter rivals, Luton. There’ll be no coasting to the Prem with this run-in. We’ll need to be at it from the first minute in every game, starting with Friday night’s visit of in-form Reading. Potentially the most winnable of the six games, it would save us all a lot of anguish if we could brush them aside, or nick it by one dubious goal – don’t care. At least the Royals are unlikely to sit in for a draw, so let’s just hope we can out-luck, or out-Joao them. If they turn us over, it’s surely open season again for second spot.

Watford 1 Sheffield Wednesday 0

I hate a sporting anti-climax. I was there to witness Sheffield Wednesday’s equaliser from the Rookery End on the last day of the 2014/15 season that denied us the cherry of being champions on the promotion cake. We’d still made it to the Premier League, but not as Championship table-toppers, thanks to an injury-time equaliser. Instead of us parading the winner’s trophy around the Vic, Bournemouth got all the pleasure with a (fittingly) replica cup.

That moment should have been ours. Wednesday had only three shots that whole game, but still managed to burst our bubble because we just weren’t clinical enough on the day. We’d already achieved the main aim of promotion after the Brighton game, so I suppose going for the jugular, and the title of Champions, was just an added extra. And so we were pipped by those spoilers on the south coast.

Saturday’s game at home to Wednesday bore many similarities in my mind. A summery affair in the sunshine, towards the end of a long, hopeful and yet arduous season. Back then a crowd not really engaged in the game, just waiting for the off-pitch celebrations afterwards which ended up a tad subdued. Now, no crowd at all, supporters physically removed, not just mentally, with much the same stultifying effect.

After the long international break, a lethargic spell seemed to settle over this match. In 2015 we were a little off our game but it was already job done, and the squad were probably nursing some sore and distracted heads. This weekend, far from job done, but a win would put us nine points clear in second. Now widely regarded by the sporting media as the team who will go up with Norwich, it feels like promotion is only ours to lose. Confidence is all well and good, but playing any less than 100% in this league and you’ll get punished. The memories of that Wednesday equaliser in May 2015 were never far from my mind as this game wore on. We should win. We should get promoted. We are the better team. But… maybe the owls were going to taint the narrative again?

Dropping points would not have been a disaster, just as finishing runners-up made no difference to our first season back in the Premier League. However, a victory would be more than just three points now, in the context of the season. Coming back after a break can alter courses, and destroy momentum. Might we come back all sticky and nervous, or completely unrecognisable? One only has to remember our return to play after the first lockdown – we were a shadow of the team that had steam-rolled Liverpool in February.

A win here would stretch our points distance to a disheartening degree for Swansea and Brentford, both of whom would have time to digest our performance before running out for their own games. Lose here, and you can imagine our rivals invigorated. Win, and they would tighten up with fear and pressure. A huge advantage for us to kick-off first and lay down a marker then.

This one really was less about the game, and more about the moment, the opportunity. Just as well, because the game itself will not live long in the memory. It was to be a sluggish performance, but we did not fluff our lines this time. You could say we seized this one, without ever grasping it.

The game was not entirely without note. Ismaila Sarr returned after injury, bookmarked by Pedro hobbling off at the end. Zinckernagel, too, was restored to the side, and Chalobah handed the armband again. With Sema rested after mid-week involvement with Sweden, Success was the beneficiary, Xisco giving the Nigerian another chance to live up to his moniker, putting him in the central striking role and nudging Pedro out left.

Wednesday were relegated from the top flight with us back in 2000 – and have not returned since. Now they languish in the bottom three, perilously close to relegation, a six-point deduction no excuse for what would anyway be judged an abysmal season. A new coach in Darren Moore has lent them a recent bit of steel, usually reserved for the red side of Sheffield. He was not in attendance because of a late positive coronavirus test, and his absence from the touchline was a blow for them. Would they be scrapping for their lives, snapping into us and trying to hurt us? Not really, as it turned out. Both teams with so much at stake, curiously flat.

The only goal of the game came early, and not without contention. Was Sarr offside in the 7th minute when he received, and beautifully controlled, Masina’s raking diagonal pass? Was Success interfering with play as he ran in behind Tom Lees towards Sarr’s whipped delivery? The defender certainly thought so, arguing that he would not have had to intercept the cross, and thereby inadvertently send it into his own net, if it wasn’t for the clearly offside presence of the striker coming in behind.

The goal was flagged off by the linesman, only to be overruled by the ref. Indecision and confusion by officials just adds fuel to the fire of any potential complaint. And complain they did, after the incident, at half-time, and they’re probably still at it. Nevertheless, it was the deciding moment of the match. And there was to be no sucker punch this time around.

If Wednesday want to focus on one moment, it should be Jordon Rhodes’ chance in the 65th minute. The looping ball into our box was nudged on by Sierralta and landed at the prolific striker’s feet 8 yards out. As you would expect from such an accomplished poacher, he struck first time, but the ball sailed over the bar. It took a few moments to process why the net hadn’t bulged. Thank goodness for that most rusty of finishes from usually trusty boots.

Barry Bannan orchestrated most of Wednesday’s play, their most influential player by a country mile. His deliveries from set pieces were a menace, and his eye for a quick forward pass constantly unnerving as we retreated into our shell, especially in the second half. Just before a dangerous free-kick on the edge of our box, conceded after a foul on Bannan, he had to jettison one of his boots. Instead of changing both, he quickly put a new one on and headed back on the pitch with a mis-matched pair.

When you’re looking for omens, and portents, their best player suddenly sporting odd boots is alarming. Here we go, I thought. I’m going to remember this trivial bit of wardrobe malfunction forever now, because he’s about to lash this one into the top-corner, and from that loose thread our whole season will unravel. Fortunately, he lashed it into the wall, and odd boots will not become the stuff of unwanted flashbacks.

Hughes was making his 100th league appearance for the hornets. With him in the team, disrupting, shielding and forging, we should have the necessary grit and vision to keep our poker face straight. He picked up a customary yellow card, tugging back Josh Windass with half an hour to play, but saw out the 90. The game was always in the balance, so withdrawing Hughes would have been too great a gamble.

The match would have been well beyond Wednesday, had Success been more clinical – but it’s just not happening for him in a yellow shirt. In the 23rd minute Zinckernagel played a ball to his feet, after good approach play from Pedro, but instead of shooting first time, or squaring to an unmarked Chalobah, he tried to dink the ball through to himself over defending limbs and got muscled out as the ball span away. In the 31st minute, the ball fell kindly to him at the edge of the box, but he skewed his shot wide of the left-hand post. Success was effective in winning free-kicks, and did get round the back of the defence early in the second half, but could only win a corner. Xisco hiked him on 60 minutes, giving Gray, fresh from duty with Jamaica, a chance to impress from the bench.

But Gray could not do much, along with our whole attacking line. Instead, we won this game with our defensive prowess. Sierralta and Troost-Ekong are consistently alive to danger and a match for most strikers in this league. The latter cut out a Windass cross destined for Rhodes’ boot on 54 minutes, the former winning every defensive header going.

Bachmann is solid, and dependable. He doesn’t get called to do a lot, but what he does he does well, and very decisively. Our new number one came out quickly to flap down a Josh Windass chance mid-way through the first half, brave and direct. A little later he punched away a dangerous Bannan cross. He did not have to be spectacular to record our 18th clean sheet of the campaign. He is very vocal, marshalling the troops ahead of him, a captain in the trenches, barking orders, keeping the lads on their toes.

It’s just as well our defensive display won us the points, as a second goal looked elusive. Pedro played well, as usual, and brought a fingertip save from Wildsmith in the Wednesday goal. Zinckernagel took up a few promising positions, but did not test the keeper when spaces opened up for him on the edge of the box. On another day, a more ruthless display would have exploited Wednesday’s soft underbelly. Their goalie kept shanking the ball out and handing us possession, but we just weren’t at the races. The tempo was slow, our ideas not executed quickly enough to prosper. Some promising looking free-kick routines, no doubt worked on in training this past week, all amounted to nothing.

Insignificant fare on the pitch, but significant points on the table. A good Friday, this Good Friday, for the suited and sneakered Watford boss. He looks every inch invested, in every minute, and every pass. He looked concerned by the slow tempo of the game, but knew what was required to get us over the line. Gosling and Sanchez are great ballast for a wobbling vessel, even if they both conceded possession in dangerous areas after their introductions. We have strength in depth, and five substitutes allows Xisco to make telling and timely contributions.

There’s been a lot of talk this week in Watford circles about the point at which promoted teams feel they’ve done it. We’re all wondering whether we’re allowed to start vocalising our positivity, and to what extent. We certainly don’t want to unbalance the universe with some unguarded moment of complacency, but internally, at least, we want to start putting the champers on ice.

Some, like Micah Hyde on Hive Live, said it was not really about one game, or one moment, but more a steady feeling of being formidable. The FTRE podcast fellas all had different defining moments from the 2014/15 season, but mine was the game against Middlesbrough at the Vic that we won 2-0. Boro were vying with us near the top, and this game, just after the Easter break, got me believing – almost expecting – promotion. If we can beat Middlesbrough again on Easter Monday, especially if our rivals drop points, then promotion will start to feel tangible. Crucially, once more, we play ahead of the chasing pack, with the chance to pull, even briefly, a massive 12 points away. Yes, 12, with only six games to go.

We were the only team to win from the top six, our 10th from 11 games, with 50 points now amassed in our home games. Swansea lost again, this time to Birmingham, conceding a very debatable injury-time penalty. Brentford couldn’t overcome Huddersfield. Even Norwich surrendered two points in extra time at Deepdale, and we now sit only six points from the Canaries, still to play them. We’re closer to the summit than third.

But we cannot get distracted. Take note, fellow horns. The seventh placed team did win, and could easily mount a charge into the play-off spots. That team is Bournemouth, who despatched our next opponents Middlesbrough in convincing fashion, 3-1. Forget anti-climaxes, what an unrivalled sporting disaster it would be to squander automatic promotion and end up at Wembley against the Cherries for the final Premier League spot. We all know how that would pan out. Sorry to put the frighteners on you, but we haven’t achieved anything just yet.

Football – The Good, The Bad, and The Lockdown

It’s been a week for all kinds of reflection, not just about lockdown – what we’ve lost, or gained, or had to re-evaluate – but also about the integrity of football. Back in October, when I reached out to Watford FC for help, they did not disappoint. They were there to support me, when I most needed it, showing a debt of gratitude for my support over the years. I’ve had plenty of cause to reflect upon this most positive of interactions with my club, more of which later in the post. Much to consider then.

Tuesday this week marked the one-year anniversary of going into lockdown. It’s been an unprecedented year, an awful one by all accounts. It’s robbed us of all the everyday things in life we take for granted: family, work, school, hugs, pubs, football. Many have lost loved ones, their livelihoods, their reasons for living. We have all led constrained lives, some broken by the emptiness of endless days on their own, others broken by physical and mental fatigue on the front line of the fight against the pandemic.

When football returned in June 2020, it was controversial. Despite a ban on crowds, and rigorous testing, many footballers and managers believed a return to action was reckless, compromising the safety of players and staff. The rest of us understood that it was most likely sanctioned because of the huge sums of money involved. It was certainly a bit of both. The decision to finish the season behind closed doors was manner from heaven for Liverpool fans, celebrating their first league title in 30 years – agony for Watford fans, whose players came back, but not as a team, and conspired to prize open the relegation trapdoor and jump right in.

The cessation of football was a small fly in the ointment, but reminded all of us fans how much we were invested in the game. How truly valuable it was when, suddenly, unthinkably, it could be taken away. Those used to the regular matchday experience, a social occasion to bookmark their week, felt it in sharpest relief, no doubt, but we all mourned its temporary departure, and then its tinny, hollow re-birth in empty, lifeless stadiums.*

In the wider context of the pandemic, football has become a welcome distraction, and a slice of normality, even if it is a surreal one. No-one is saying football has all the answers, but it does, undeniably, glue a lot of people together in meaningful ways. And it is meaning we all need right now.

In the past few days some clubs have rightly come under the spotlight for the parts they played in allowing abuse to go unchecked in their youth set-ups. Football’s Darkest Secrets has been airing this week, with heart-rending testimony from those footballers who were systematically groomed and abused by their coaches as youngsters. I’m staggered by the bravery these talented men have shown by telling their horrific stories, and the weight of the psychological scars they bear.

At age 11 I would have given my right arm to be taken in by a club’s youth system. These young lads were clutching onto a dream to be professional footballers, and many went on to fulfil those dreams of playing. But the price they paid was enormous. Instead of joy and happiness, they felt guilt and shame. Instead of the support of family, friends and the judicial system, many were to suffer in silence, or find the world, and the footballing family, didn’t really care.

No, football most certainly does not have all the answers, and it shamefully failed to protect its youngsters from these monsters. I am hopeful with the right safeguarding measures in place nothing like this will ever happen again in youth football. But we mustn’t let the actions of a few evil men taint the wonderful game itself.

Football is generally a force for good. Players can reach across the divide and connect with the fanbase. Clubs can help their communities. I’m proud that Watford is just such a club.

From a personal perspective, one of the things that has kept me going during lockdown has been the return of football. In 2020 I lost loved ones, my job, and during long spells, my mojo. There’s only so many PE with Joes you can do before even Captain Serotonin wants out.

Then from out of nowhere, my 4 year-old son’s Leukaemia diagnosis in September. As all parents of poorly children know, you become a bit of an expert in the condition they’re facing, because you want to arm yourself with knowledge. You throw yourself in, do anything you can. We’ve been wonderfully supported during a difficult time, but it’s hard to watch a child suffer, and keep a positive outlook when there’s so much uncertainty. The pandemic has not helped, keeping us apart from each other, an extra layer of complication.

I’m only writing about this because I want to put on record the massive positive impact a football team and its players can have. They are not all self-obsessed, vastly overpaid prima donnas. They are people like you and me, with families, and conflicting priorities, many living away from their home countries, with multiple challenges to their physical and mental well-being. Many are just teenagers who are, as we have seen, vulnerable to all kinds of influence. They are human beings, like us.

During a particularly dark week in October, I reached out to Watford FC to ask if they could help lift the spirits of a poorly young hornet, and received the lifeline of a video message from goalkeeper Ben Foster telling my lad to keep strong, and keep going. The club that I cared so much for, and had invested so much in, were there for me and my family in our moment of need. We eventually sent a little thank you message back to Fozzy via the club, but I’d like to stick it on the record again and say what a true gentleman of the game he is.

But I’m far from being an isolated case. Off the pitch Watford responded to the pandemic by reaching out to its most vulnerable supporters with the Hornets at Home scheme, now a permanent fixture. During lockdown more than 300 supporters volunteered their services – collecting and delivering groceries, mowing lawns etc – and more than 2,500 supporters received a call from the club to offer support. Watford FC has committed to providing ongoing additional support for elderly and isolated supporters, those who suffer with mental health problems, and families of bereaved supporters.

It’s no wonder I feel a stronger sense of connection with my club than I ever have done, for all the myriad reasons given above. There’s genuine cause for optimism in 2021, with the vaccine roll-out in full flow. And perhaps there’ll be a Watford promotion to cheer, and the tantalising possibility of bringing my boy to watch his first ever competitive game at the Vic. I feel sustained by these hopes, and this is why football really can be a power for good in these most difficult of times.

* Lockdown football is a bit like the habitual lot of the long-distance supporter. Us perpetual away-from-homers have always relied almost exclusively on radio commentary or the odd televised game to maintain a connection with our club. If we’re lucky we get to top-up on a real matchday experience every now and then, the memories of which can sustain our love for our clubs for months, even years at a time, but the norm is being one step removed from the action.

The coronavirus pandemic has made our marginalised experience a universal one. The remote fan has no less intense a desire to see their team perform well, even if it is geographically a challenging one. But not having fans in the stadiums reduces the enjoyment for all fans, banished as we are from witnessing or partaking in the vital interaction between players and fans. From the coal-face of the terraces, there’s no hiding place from praise or scorn alike.

The irony is, I have felt a closer connection to Watford during lockdown. I feel more invested than ever. Somehow, during this time when nothing else matters except the things that really matter, I’ve found my connection to Watford FC coming into sharp focus. A massive part of this is how inter-connected we all are by technology and social media.

Thanks to the excellent Hive Live, supporters can now watch most games, or listen, whenever they want, rather than being at the mercy of schedulers, or broadcast contracts which meant, amongst other annoyances, I could never listen to League Cup ties on BBC Three Counties digital radio.

The lads on the From The Rookery End podcast have become like a counselling session for me. I’m embarrassed by how often I refresh my podcast app to get the next instalment, even if I just need them to voice all the things I’m thinking. These fellas are obviously just as hooked as I am, and are unashamedly wearing their hearts on their sleeves. I feel, on a deep golden level, to be one of them. One of many thousands all being ground through the same delicious, turbulent mill.

Watford 3 Birmingham 0

Six weeks is such a long time in football. Back in early February I had resorted to throwing missiles at the telly. I’d reluctantly abandoned any hopes of promotion for this season. I felt glum, dejected and angry at my team. After today’s match, promotion back to the Premier League looks distinctly possible.

It takes a lot to make me throw something at the TV in anger – in fact, I’ve only ever done it once. That was February 6th this year, the projectile in question being a piece of scrunched up paper – not very rock ‘n’ roll I’ll admit. The game in question, Watford’s sorry 0-0 draw with Coventry in Xisco Munoz’s 9th game in charge.

Don Goodman, commentating for Sky, declared it was simply impossible for Watford to win promotion playing that badly. On that day we were lucky to get a point, our players looked like zombies on some drifting wreck, unable to pick each other out, lost for the want of ideas and any kind of hunger.

What irked so much was Xisco’s explicit promise of a new system, and a new intensity, off the back of a home defeat by QPR. Neither were delivered by the Spanish coach, even though, we were later to find out, they’d been practicing a different set-up all week only to revert to type on the day. It felt amateurish, and the players looked confused. Hughes stuck out on the left wing smacked of blatant incompetence from many a locked-down living room.*

Six weeks later, we are playing like a Premier League team in waiting. Xisco has now won 9 out of 10 games, and five in a row.

After the Coventry game, I think it’s fair to say we had all lost faith in the Xisco experiment. Had our previous head coach Ivic not been despatched so recently, the trapdoor would have been pulled on this genial but inexperienced fella, no doubt. But even the Pozzos could see that, reputationally, firing Xisco would be more damaging than missing out on promotion. If all you can do is keep on sacking head coaches, there will be an inevitable downward spiral. So Xisco remained in place. He had to.

Thank heavens Xisco stayed. Praise be that Hughes reverted to the centre of a midfield three. Halleluljah! The combination of Xisco’s positivity and attacking philosophy, our very talented players playing in the right places, our whole squad invested and employed in winning matches, some wise additions to personnel for midfield cover, and a lack of injuries to key players (in the main) – plus a decent slice of luck in games – has given us momentum, and now daylight in second place.

The game today against a Birmingham side fresh from beating Reading, and enjoying a new manager bounce – fighting for survival at the bottom of the league – should have been a contest. But it wasn’t. We turned up, dominated, and saw off their one-dimensional game with a swagger and belief that has me thinking, well, who can’t we beat? I was a little wary before kick-off, wondering what might happen if Birmingham were to press and get an early goal, as they had done against Reading. But not much.

The most compelling thing about the Blues this afternoon was their manager’s haircut. Lee Bowyer was a rascal of a midfielder in his playing career, a tough and reckless tackler, busy all over the pitch like a hyena, putting out fires. Today, with his bizarre silver comb-over, he puts me in mind of a sloth. The hairstyle is suitable, perhaps, for a septuagenarian, but not a whipper-snapper like Bowyer, who at 44 is younger than me.**

Back to the match then. Nathaniel Chalobah is captain again, and the best player on the pitch, again. He’s fired up with the armband on. On the 23rd minute, with the score at 1-0 thanks to our 3rd minute opener, he heads a dangerous long throw out off Pedro’s flick. Then he throws himself like a man possessed to block Bela’s effort from inside the box. He scores our second goal from a neatly executed corner routine. In the 86th minute he can be seen sprinting out from our defensive wall to choke a Birmingham shot at source, even with the score line at 3-0. Chalobah is an exceptional talent firing on all cylinders. Keep playing like this and it won’t be long before Gareth is on the blower again.

Our intensity at the beginning of halves is becoming a habit. Today, with both Ismaila Sarr and Phillip Zinckernagel out injured, we open our account in the third minute regardless. Pedro is given the freedom of Vicarage Road to run towards the penalty area and hit a decent effort to the bottom right of the goal. Their keeper, Etheridge, dives full stretch to save, but it’s an easy task for Sema to run in and tap the ball home. We’re so used to playing on the front foot and creating chances, it’s second nature to gamble, and Sema was alive to the opportunity.

Birmingham pose similar questions to Cardiff and Rotherham. Once again long throws are hurled into our box, and it is encouraging to see how well we deal with them. The team has been simulating this kind of aerial bombardment in training and it shows. We look comfortable, even if Hogan could have tested Bachmann inside ten minutes had his attempted header not come off his shoulder. We’re strong, organised and brave – Hughes takes an elbow in the face from Gary Gardner as he heads clear from another homing missile.

There are chances to finish the game in the first half. Masina kisses the outside of the post with a close-range shot off a Sema corner – before kissing the offending upright, as if to forgive it, or perhaps charm it for next time. Gosling has a header saved from Pedro’s cross in the 30th minute, before penalty appeals as the stumbling Bela handles from a Sema corner. Shortly after, Pedro nutmegs Pederesen on the edge of the box and is hauled down, the defender cautioned. Masina could not repeat his Cardiff free-kick feat, although it was certainly in his mind as he shot, weakly this time, at goal.

Then it’s hard to see how Isaac Success doesn’t score in the 36th minute from a Sema cross, unable to get the ball out of his feet allowing Dean to tackle. In the second half, an even more agonising episode – Success is through one-on-one with Etheridge, but a heavy touch plays the ball too close to the onrushing keeper.

Success, making a rare start, looks (and sounds) like he should be better than he is. A bit like Frank Bruno, who always looked, with his outstandingly ripped physique, like he should be unstoppable, but wasn’t, Success looks like he should be able to bully and command, but doesn’t. If anything, his physical appearance is counter to his actual presence on the pitch. He gets brushed off easily, goes down at the suggestion of contact, as if he were physically, and mentally, under-prepared.

He cuts a frustrated figure. At one point he is fouled, but advantage is played, then lost. Success seeks his own retribution, chasing and bringing down Harper as if to make a point. But it is only the Nigerian who sees yellow. Perhaps he just needs minutes to get him used to the hurly-burly of the Championship, but he’s been at the club a long time now. You feel there’s a decent player in there though.

It would be doing Birmingham a disservice not to mention some promising moments for them. Their busy number 35, Halilovic, was a menace whipping balls into our box. Chalobah’s outstanding block from Bela was matched by Masina’s last-second tackle on Colin, who had waltzed into our box but wanted to get it on his right foot for a shot. That allowed Adam just enough time to hook his left heel around the ball. Jutkiewicz was the presence Success wasn’t, and needed our centre-backs to be switched on. Troost-Ekong slid in to cut out his cross midway through the first half, and Bachmann held the target man’s header on the line in the opening stages of the second.

Dean was presented with a half-chance after Pedro got caught doing tricks on the edge of his own box, and Roberts had a presentable headed chance. But for every ball lofted or ballooned into our box, we contested robustly, so that even if the Birmingham man got there first, he would not have a free header. In that regard, Sierralta was the lynch-pin; but every man defended with due diligence.

We needed the second goal, and it came from Gosling’s corner. Chalobah peeled away to the back post and like a bird swooping into position, attacked the ball with a powerful downward header into the heart of the goal. It had been coming, following nearly moments from Gosling and Sema on swift counter-attacks created by Pedro through-balls.

Come the 60th minute, Success was finally put out of his misery, replaced by Hungbo, Gosling making way for Sanchez. Birmingham made three changes which gave them a lift, and Jutkiewicz another headed chance in the 62nd minute. However it was Pedro who spurned the next only-the-keeper-to-beat chance, dithering enough for Dean to make a recovering tackle. Blues substitute Leko hit a shot from outside the box, showing some spirit, whilst Bachmann almost got caught with a dummy and drag-back in his own six-yard box. I’m pleased he’s showing this level of confidence, but enough already!

Masina goes off, with a back niggle, allowing Lazaar some time to shrug off the left-back understudy robes. His audition, though, does not go well. He is desperate to prove himself, but instead performs a litany of overhit crosses, badly-judged tackles and glory-hunting shots from distance. You can just hear his team-mates tutting. You’re Horatio, mate, not bloody Hamlet.

Before the game-settling third, Troost-Ekong lets a lofted ball bounce, which allows Jutkiewicz a snapshot, and Harley Dean has a header in the 79th minute. A minute later two fresh subs combine to nail Birmingham’s coffin shut. Ngakia, on for Sema, feeds Gray, on for Pedro, who runs from the halfway line and slots neatly under Etheridge. Only on for a matter of seconds, Gray is at his instinctive best and, perhaps spurred on by how poorly Success had taken his big chance, composed when it matters.

Keen for another, he is later visibly unhappy with Hungbo who elects to shoot from an angle instead of squaring it – but it’s hard to deny the youngster his chance to open an account in yellow. After Gray’s dagger through the heart, the Blues go through the motions, sub San Jose rattling a drive straight at Bachmann a minute before the 90 their only twitch before rigor mortis sets in.

And now we head into the International Break – the nemesis of teams in form, an oasis for struggling outfits. When we come back on April 2nd, we can only hope a very winnable home fixture against Sheffield Wednesday plays out as expected. After that game, the fixtures get progressively more difficult, so we’ll need to set a marker down and continue as we left off.

The league table is a thing of beauty for us hornets, so it’s perhaps not so bad that we can sit and relish it during this mini-break. We’re six points – yes, six massive points – ahead of Swansea, who were beaten at home by fierce rivals Cardiff. Our goal difference gives us, effectively, an extra point on them. So even if they win their game in hand, and beat us, we’d still be above them in the table.

Brentford slipped up against Nottingham Forest, dropping two more points, making them seven – yes, seven massive points – off our pace. Like Swansea, they have a game in hand and a game against us.

Even Norwich drew yesterday, going for a tenth win on the trot. We’re only eight – yes, eight massive points, I know – off the top spot, but we do play them, and our goal difference is equal.

Six weeks is a long, long time in football. It will take us to the final day of the Championship. I know it’s going to be a bumpy ride. But I believe in this team because – it’s palpable – they believe in themselves, and mental resilience, as much as footballing ability, is what’s required for promotion from this league.

But more important than that, please Will, don’t twist your ankle on the stairs…

Watch the highlights here.

*That rising feeling of having royally messed it all up is not new. When we were 2-0 down to Huddersfield earlier in the season after a Foster mistake and Capoue own goal, I switched off the radio. There was no way an Ivic team could possibly score two goals away from home, so this match, against very ordinary opposition, was already beyond us only 30 minutes in. I was not surprised to find out shortly after that the head coach had been sacked. The same can be said for Quique’s doomed second spell last year. In his final game against Southampton, which we lost 2-1, it was actually his final substitution on 82 minutes of Foulquier for Femenia that had me groaning into my hands. Did he actually want to lose the game? I felt bereft, and so too, evidently, did Gino – he’d had to pull the plug on his second coach that season.

** He’s not the only manager who resembles an animal. Scott Parker is a terrapin – a very well-dressed terrapin I’ll admit – and I’ll resist any puns about being a snappy dresser where the Fulham boss is concerned.