TERRACES - they were brilliant weren't they? The crowd moved as one, the atmosphere was unbeatable, and you didn't need toilets because you could just tinkle in someone's pocket when nature called.

Hence it was with an excited swagger similar to the ever chipper Bez from The Happy Mondays that I strutted to Colchester's Layer Road. Standing? In The Championship? How cool is that?

Sadly, it was approximately two seconds after hearing the rusty clunk of the away end turnstile rattle behind me when it all came flooding back to me - terracing wasn't good at all. It was a bloody nightmare.

Pinned into a cage, before getting ushered onto an already jammed patch of tiny concrete, instantly I was squashed against a fat man, who was squished against a thin woman, who was pressed up against a very confused kid.

Once I'd found an inch of space to call my own, I could see approximately 12% of the lush Essex turf and was being touched in places I didn't even know I had. Ughghghgh.

As the Colchester goals started rattling in and fake Burberry clad Essex chaps starts spitting "Welcome to Layer Road!" towards me, I was gagging to escape. But of course I couldn't move, I couldn't even bury my head in my hands as they were both trapped at my sides. At least it was dry I thought, getting flash backs of similar days of blind squishedness on the roofless Vicarage Road End terraces as a kid.

With that I got showered with a down pour of spit from the bloke stood literally one inch behind me. He was screaming a 'Save Al Bangura' chant, so I could hardly complain - but my evening was definitely getting worse.

As ever, it was a certain bald headed Jamaican from Dulwich who came to my rescue. Marlon had struck a beauty. I couldn't see the goal but I was off the ground roaring towards the pitch waving my arms around - we must have scored.

By the time I'd found my feet, John-Joe had equalised, and the place went mental. It was like being in a washing machine - yellow replica shirts were flying everywhere. Priskin's third, well that was even crazier. I might not have seen a thing, but celebrating a comeback like that was certainly worth not having somewhere to plonk my bum on.

And as 87-year-old Teddy Sherringham croaked off the subs bench, it really did feel like 1988 all over again.

Season Ticket holder Lee Coan will be bringing you regular updates on life as a Hornet and following the team on the road throughout the season. To see past articles click here.

The views in this blog are not necessarily the views of Watford Football Club.

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