J.K. Rowling could do a lot worse than plonking herself in front of Hull v Watford tonight, you know, if it's some proper twisted fantasy moody bollocks that she's in need of assembling in time for her next publisher meeting.

Take last night's Bristol City versus Crystal Palace 2nd leg, for instance. Had Aqbal laced my green salad with acid, or did I really see out-of-form City complete a second win in four days against a Palace side so driven in their late season form to have almost almost attempted that pole-vaulter's trick of refusing a lower height (or the semi knockout in their case) and thought 'fok it, lets just do the Wembley game, eh lads?'

If they had, not only would it have been highly illegal, but we would also have missed the hilarity of a squeaky mock Liverpudlian (Lee Trundle), a ginger man (Ben Watson) fluffing a penalty then getting totally swamped in the quickest and earliest arranged pitch invasion of all time, and quite the most stirring combination of close-up facial furniture visuals since The Wurzels embarked on their anti-Gillette tour of the South West.

At least two things did remain constant. I've not been too ofay with commentator Alan Parry's excellent work in recent weeks, and it's reassuring to note that these tiring months of the season haven't resulted in a drop-off in AP's wordplay. Mixing metaphors in my mind is worthy of remark, but coagulating clichés is really something else.

That, and 'Neil Warnock' is still an anagram of 'Colin Wanker'.

Suddenly, football makes sense again, eh?