So, after a couple of mild days away from it all, it was the first autumnal day of 2004 that saw our standard away game at Watford (i.e.mid-week).

The morning’s postbag brought enough interesting nonsense for several hours discussion – the Regional Assembly ballot paper, otherwise known as phase three of John Hall’s plans for world domination (phase 1- knighthood courtesy of the Metro Centre, phase 2- family’s financial future secure, courtesy of the mags), and a Hibs merchandise catalogue, including Hibernian Chilli sauce. The day’s first bonus came when the ticket prices were found to be £5 below estimates, the second was Rob’s new bouffant. Then we hit St Albans. It was my first visit, and it’s no wonder, with pubs called the Bell, the Cock, the Old Cock, the Horn, and the Old Fighting Cocks. We decided we liked the Old Cock in the best, but went to Wetherspoons instead, as we’re cheapskates.

Clear roads gave us an hour to kill in Watford, where some chose to get “overserved” before kick-off, and then it was into the museum of British football stadia that is Vicarage Road. Sporting the Seven Ages of accommodation in a clockwise fashion from bare terraces, through open seats, a bike shed, a Dutch barn, a dodgy cantilever, that funny thing with the semi-circles on top, and our end – the one with the miniature bogs. Bijou and compact is perhaps the polite way to describe them. On the pitch, Elliot and Stewart were back, but we decided to follow recent form down in Elton-land, and concede a sloppy early goal. Neil Ardley ever scores, but he couldn’t believe it as our whole defence allowed a low cross to skid through to him, and bang, thank you very much, in it went.

Another five minutes, and we had hold of the game, but produced few real chances before Watford made an arse of a free-kick on half way, the ball was passed forward to Elliott, who showed real composure to pop it away. Oooh, we thought, we can win this, and we piled into them for the next half hour, with Watford still providing the odd break. Despite the substitution of Whitley for the more positive Lawrence, chances were restricted to half-decent efforts from Whitehead, Arca (otherwise ineffective) and Stewart. The introduction of Bridges for Stewart was no surprise, but Brown for Elliott was – perhaps it was admission of a draw and the chance for the fans to show their appreciation for the little fella, but he’d had been better left on. As the game wore on, several stud-free moments showed how greasy it was, and the ref did well to let the game flow as much as he did. On the night, it was probably a point won, but we should be beating teams like this, as they were clearly raising their game when we clearly weren’t, with Wright in particular looking well below par. We need someone who will hold the ball and look for the killer pass, rather than knock it on as quickly as possible.

Well, generally disappointed, we boarded the bus, watch the American police/Hispanic drug cartel swearathon that is compulsory on away trips, then inflated Lilo Lil mark 3, assumed the crash positions, and indulged in a few hours of freestyle sleeping.

Man of the match? Elliott, for his pace, movement, and for never giving up on a ball.

Sobs