Again, it’s hard to say anything about Wolves that hasn’t been said before, and even harder to say it without laughing. The one-sided rivalry, all that minding gaps, the old days when if they got four thousand you knew the away team had brought a load, the twenty thousand who never missed a match in all that time, the belief that there’s no club on earth with better players, supporters, ground, history, potential, owners*, not-at-all-dodgy-agent. And all this done in deadly seriousness because the one thing you will never find, no matter how hard you look, is a Wolves supporter with any semblance of a sense of humour or proportion when Da Wolves am concerned. If you don’t believe it, try to disagree with one of them.

Anyway, onto Wednesday night’s anticipated feast of footballing excellence. It’s the week after Christmas, the kids have gone back to school and there’s a train strike. Naturally it’s a top-price match and it better be worth all that. They’ve got a load of players from Portugal and a manager and his team from Spain. We’ve almost certainly picked up a couple more injuries since Sunday.

They, for all their magnificence, are in the bottom three. We’re on a roll. Normally this would be the time for panic, worry and apprehension. No more.