With due apologies to my co-editor, stranded on the South Coast by the weather and consequent train disruption, this is what you bloody go to watch a football match for. You know it’s been a good one when you’re left drained by the adrenaline, when you’ve been up and down and cheering and relaxed and apprehensive and nervous and terrified and exaltant all within the space of a couple of hours. That, and a big gash on my calf indicating the point at which the celebration of Danny Graham’s marvellous winner got a little too raucous in the Rookery (I think it was the frame of my seat wot dunnit, either that or someone took a bite out of my leg in delirium. Either way, I’m treating it has having taken one for the team). It felt as if something fundamentally changed at that point, like air flooding into a vacuum… a first win in eight, and the first Watford goal at the Rookery End since August. The only concern is that it might start snowing in Watford now, but I’ll take that sacrifice.