BSAD report: There are less than ten minutes left. Robbo’s receiving a pass and steaming down the left like an irate, stampeding wildebeest. He whacks a cross towards the penalty area, hitting a defender and winning a corner. His momentum takes him over the touchline and towards the Rookery, fists clenched and bellowing insanely to demand more support. Spurs are visibly rattled by our bruising assault, suddenly defending a draw rather than pursuing a victory.

In the stand that Robbo’s glaring at, we’re all on our feet. My vocal chords are taking more abuse, screaming encouragement. I’m bracing myself for the winner.

Take a freeze-frame of that moment. Think about it. We’re supposed to have accepted relegation, to feel humbled by the Premiership experience. Yet it takes only the slightest encouragement to flip the script entirely, to bring us back to life as this roaring, snarling beast of a team.