Like the season as a whole, Saturday's game should have been better.

I arrived at The Vic full of optimism and looking forward to the Hornets signing off with some swagger.

I do not really know why I had any confidence, it was probably down in no small part to me being a complete idiot.

The game was awful. We were as bad as we have been all season against Huddersfield, even in the darkest hours of our beloved Gianfranco Zola's unfortunate demise.

No passion, no desire and countless wayward passes from players who are arguably amongst the most talented we have had at Watford in a generation.

I can handle Devon White, Scott Fitzgerald and big Mickey Quinn scuffing a ball and falling over but when players as glorious as Christian Battocchio look like they have never seen a football before, it is enough to make a grown ‘Orn cry.

Whether the players were sulking because of the possibility of extra training, who knows? But it was not good enough.

The game meant nothing for either side, yet by the end of the 90 minutes it felt oddly huge, like a match that could change everything and probably not for the better.

The summers of many people in and around Watford Football Club surely were altered by the sheer rot of that second half.

We have to remember, this is not the Watford of old, we are not just bumbling along season-to-season any more.

Some very serious people have serious amounts of money at stake and I am sure that awful 45 minutes hurt them as much as it upset me.

Amidst all the gloom, huge credit needs to go to a certain Mr Harold the Hornet. I don't know who is in the suit these days but I would like to buy them a drink.

In a game that was as painful as a kick to the groin, that funny mascot stole Huddersfield beach balls, danced in a grass skirt and did things beyond the call of duty of a giant furry insect trying to arouse some depressed supporters.

Our singing section the 1881 also were fantastic. These are a group stuck in arguably the worst seats of all the ground.

Yet when a season that promised so much fizzled out in such a terrible manner, they swallowed their pride and sung louder than they have all year.

They chanted songs they have invented themselves, whilst the rest of us mumbled and groaned about Jonathan Bond not being quite as good as we would like him to be. It was great, really it was.

Likewise, there was something quite beautfiul about the lap of honour that followed the 1881's singing in the face of sheer misery.

Few Watford fans remained but it was perhaps the core. These are the fans who were there in League One, who have been to places like Carlisle United and Grimsby Town away.

The fans who “bleed Watford so hard" they are deeply worried at just how they will cope with a whole summer without watching silly yellow men fail to kick a ball properly.

Yes, it was a lap of honour that was hard to watch at times but it did feel like a significant moment those who remained all shared together as one - players, fans and staff hurting together.

It was in truth the only way to end such a season. If nothing else, the smile on the lad walking out of The Rookery wearing a Troy Deeney boot will live with me until August at least.

The sad wave goodbye from Manuel Almunia, the agony on Beppe's face, Danny Pudil and his boy - oh Watford FC, nothing else could ever pull at the heart strings like you do.

Next season will of course be better. At least the lap of honour will do a full lap - four stands instead of three.

One of those stands will be called The Graham Taylor Stand. This is progress people. This is Watford moving forward in a way arguably more important than going up to the Premier League.