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Twenty years ago, on a cool May evening, a small group of us stumbled out of The Horns pub in Watford at closing time. A few hours earlier Watford had beaten Grimsby Town to confirm their place in the Division One play-offs. She wore a yellow ribbon in the merry month of May. We went our separate ways, both still singing until I could no longer hear him and I lowered my voice to a whisper and carried on alone.
A few weeks later, Watford did play at Wembley. There were smoked salmon and cream cheese, egg and cress, ham and mustard. That night, Simon was the only one of our group who honoured the tradition. Of course he was.
Three weeks ago, as the players entered the field for the FA Cup quarter-final against Crystal Palace, a shower of yellow papery ribbons fell from the roof of the Graham Taylor Stand above my head. It was as if a giant party popper had been let off.
As the ribbons detached and fell around me I instinctively grabbed a length and stuffed it in my coat pocket. Last week, when I was in London, I reached into my pocket for my train ticket and the length of ribbon flew out and blew along the street.