The scene was set. Pie’s Army had done the job the previous week, as had the U14’s vanquishing Weston and Tee-Vee’s respectively. Victory over Verulamians would give Watford an unprecedented hat trick of cup victories and go some way to easing the pain of narrowly missing out on promotion. On a beautiful day, the lads turned out looking the business. Suits were dusted off, ties were worn properly around the neck as opposed to around the head and Butcher & Powelly were nearly on time. Hilly turned up looking like a Grange Hill extra playing truant. Even Pie and Jamesy turned up looking vaguely human despite their cocktail calamity the previous evening. As is Watford tradition, numerous people who hadn’t booked a coach spot showed up but thankfully this was evened up by numerous people who had booked a coach spot deciding to go straight to the venue.

Watford nerves were eased on the way to Allianz Park with a rendition of self appointed club spokesman, the horse whisperer himself, Dave Ainsley’s interview with WD Sport. Surely a spot of ingenious man management, the focus of the article was solely on our own ‘gypsy king’ and how his calves would hold up to the strain of the infamous synthetic surface rather than any mention whatsoever of the lads, opposition or season thus taking the pressure all upon his own broad shoulders. What a lad.

The butterflies fluttered once more upon arrival, Allianz Park looking picture perfect under clear blue skies. The Watford squad were given the away changing room, no wonder Sarries have such a strong home record. Visions of personalised changing areas, gold plated monsoon showers and a handmaiden each to assist the players with getting changed were soon dispelled. That said, there was a fair bit of room and we all got a programme to read where the pack found out that the front row and back row had their roles reversed. Dum dum duuum.

Changing room inspected, now for a look at the pitch. In theory. Those of us brave enough to wander into the sunlight were soon told off for having the temerity to do so before our allotted time. A chap by the name of Charlie Hodgson was out practising his kicking, and for some reason having half the Watford team within hearing distance nudging each other and audibly whispering ‘that’s Charlie Hodgson’ was putting him off.

Once charge down Charlie had finished his practise, we changed into our seriously sexy cup final training tops and strolled out to warm up. We could tell our fans had arrived as Little Franklin came out to show his support. The rest of the Watford massive were nowhere to be seen, though that’s to be expected when the bars are inside and the smoking areas are around the back. We looked sharp – the pitch and conditions meant passes were sticking. The lineout looked slick, backs handling on point. The team were in the zone, pumped up but controlled.

Last few words in the changing room, I was typically emotional. One more game of a long season, a chance to go out with a bang. Just leave it all on the pitch today, result doesn’t matter – pride in the shirt and being able to hold your head up and look your team mates in the eye at the final whistle is what counts.

The slow walk out – would the famous WRFC fans even have left the bar yet? We took a good group with us, would even more have turned up? Would we get a cheer when we came out? One last moment in the tunnel, a brief halt before walking out to the biggest game of the season. The pace quickens, all we can see is the pitch as we stride out. A break into a jog, then into the sunlight. The bar has emptied, Watford have turned up in numbers. There can only been a couple of hundred in the stadium when we came out, the noise that greeted us made it sound like a couple of thousand. Chants of ‘Watford’ echoed around the stadium. One last huddle, every single player has goosebumps and more than a few are showing genuine signs of emotion at just how many of our friends, family, team mates and club members have made the effort to come and support us.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends…

I won’t go into too much detail about the game, we all know what happened. The pace was relentless from the first whistle to the last, every single man in red white and blue elevated themselves to new levels for those 80 minutes. Sam Holloway reacted to a loose OV’s pass, scooping up the ball to run in from half way and send both players and fans into rapture. This roused our illustrious opposition, who charged time and time again at a Watford defensive line made up of heroes showing little regard for their own physical well-being. The intensity didn’t drop at any point during the game, the men in red throwing themselves into tackles and the breakdown with reckless abandon. OV’s pressure eventually told, a converted try putting them 2 points up. The relentless onslaught continued, Watford picking themselves up to make tackle after tackle, every hit being cheered to the rafters by our incredible support. However, emotion can only take you so far. Skipper Martin Lee left the field with a shoulder injury, his vice captain Luke Hammill soon following after conceding a penalty at the breakdown 5 metres out. Last play of the half, V’s rolled the dice and called for a scrum with Wats a man light. Watford were Watford-ed, a push-over try meaning the scores at half time was 14-5 to V’s.

Further misfortune followed, influential centre Andy Lee forced off at half time with a nasty looking knee injury. Watford knew we were up against it, with Hammill in the bin for another 8 minutes the pressure was sure to come. OV’s attacks were constant, always finding the space and able to offload to support. The Watford back three were inspirational in their attitude, making despairing last man hits, doing their best to halt the tide. The try line was crossed, our spirit wasn’t. Hammill returned to the fray, however he was soon replaced in the bin by Josh Wilkinson who was very harshly penalised. Against a side the quality of Verulamians you need all your players on the pitch to stand a chance, and 20 minutes with 14 players was always going to be punished.

Wilkinson returned to the battle which we knew was lost, however no Watford side ever lacked pride, passion or commitment to the badge. The lads picked themselves up and laid siege to OV’s line, every man launching themselves into the blue wall in an attempt to batter it down. James Horrocks and JR Greyling both came close, Sam Holloway made surging breaks and once more players put their health on the line in an attempt to clear rucks and generate half decent ball. The support from the sideline hadn’t wavered once, and reached a new crescendo as we inched inexorably closer to a score. The lads injured on the other side of the pitch ignored the touchline patrol office and put one foot off the running track and onto the artificial surface in a show of defiance. The ball went blind to Butcher, who offloaded out of contact to Gary Wilson. Gary said a really nice thing about me on facebook so despite what video and picture evidence may suggest, he didn’t simply catch it and trip over the line. Having caught the ball, Gary boshed his opposite number before setting off up the touchline with pace not dissimilar to a Usain Bolt relay anchor leg. A sidestep was followed by a chip and chase, which Gary collected one handed off the floor while roundhouse kicking the full back. He then launched into an Ash Splash from the 5 metre line, landing with poise and grace not dissimilar to a Tom Daley demonstration dive in splash. The men saluted him, women launched their panties into the air in celebration and, as is the rule in cup finals, we won as it was last try wins.

The final whistle soon followed. One glance at the Watford side told you all you needed to know. Limping. Slings. Numerous open wounds. Exhaustion. Tears. But, most importantly – not one head was bowed. We shook hands with our opposition, looked them in the eye and congratulated them on a job well done. The tunnel was formed away form the main stand, for once we could neither see nor hear those who had journeyed to support us. A brief huddle, and strict instructions to head over and thank everyone for making the effort to come along, whilst staying out to applaud V's as worthy winners. No wonder it was quiet… surely no Watford fan had a voice after such raucous support. The team slowly struggled across. As those in the stand noticed, a trickle of applause came our way. As more realised, the trickle became a wave, which became a tsunami. God knows what the sound would have been had we won, but in that moment we were made to feel like winners. Watford chants returned, louder than at any point in the day. Hugs and handshakes all round, pints passed down to the battered 19. The bottom lip went on a number of players, not just Martin ‘The Weeper’ (cheers Sanchez) Lee. Eyes were raised from the ground, backs straightened and chests swelled. We had lost to a better team, but we were unbowed and unbroken, and we would be back again.

We were Watford