Sometime over this season, I suggested that we were in dreamland watching this team. Now, it feels like I was premature. This, here, is DREAMLAND.
To be honest, I've been trying to write a blog about last night all day but every time I tried to do so, the words of Gus Poyet on BBC Sussex this morning kept making my inept words barely worth writing. Plus, I kept wanting to cry.
Much of today has been spent lamenting a Sky Sports journalist (and possible Palace fan) for his cock and bull story about super Glenn heading off to the scum. That story, of course, temporarily disappeared from the Sky Sports website because it was lies but is now back online. The only people who came out of it badly were Murray's agent and Sky Sports - those who rule the elite we're trying to emulate. Thanks to the awesome wearebrighton and their South London Press spot, we're happily contented again.
But that's enough about dickheads, the feelings we here at TSLR Towers have experienced over the last 24 or so hours are like nothing before. Sure, we have won titles before - and some even at Withers - but none to the high standards set this season. Really, it's indescribable. So I won't bother.
Last night had everything - early disappointment followed by first half elation. At half time it was over, despite the fact that lowly Daggers out-passed us (and that hasn't happened a lot this season). We resorted to hoofing it, and without the horse on the pitch. When Daggers went ahead in the second half, I fell silent for the longest period of the season (I'm a chatty little fuck you see) but then up stepped Bridders and his fitting strike that brought us back into the match was a moment to savour. Forever.
The Ashley Barnes Danny Cullip-like header shortly thereafter had us delighting once more and, coupled with Southampton's almighty cock-up as they fell victim to a Rochdale season double, the night was almost complete. Well, apart from that nerve racking 20 minutes that included a stupendous Ankergren free kick save and far more stresses besides. And let us not forget that jovial pitch invasion with Gully's Girls and another famous wheelchair pitch invader (was it the one from Manchester City?). Plus the surprise re-emergence of the team when all thought the lap of honour was lost forever.
And so we head to Walsall where we will be holding several cardboard/foil replica League trophies happily aloft. If we do it then, then Withdreams number 9 from the latest issue (TSLR029.030) may in fact come true (even if Sandaza isn't actually planning to sport a horses head mask).
Waking up in Brighton despite being expected at work in London was another amusing element but that couldn't detract from how it has been a wonderful day (despite the Independent newspaper not even reporting the fact that only one team has been promoted in the league this season). I have smiled at everyone - from those I hold in disdain at work to beautiful women I would have smiled at anyway. All in the office happily convinced me to do their work; everyone congratulated me (well, I did play well last night) and many just pondered how nice I had become thanks to the culmination of eight months of stress.
All that's left to say is, Gus - you have truly made me the happiest man alive and, for that, I salute you. The only disappointment we learned from one of Poyet's countless interviews today - was that he and the players were in Brighton town last night - and we didn't bump into them. Gutted.
I'm writing this drunk - I've been drunk since post match last night, and I plan to be drunk until at least next Monday morning. Or as long as it takes to land the title.
Plus news spread to TSLR HQ that Palace have only sold around 2,400 season tickets for next year. Glenn (or sorry, Mr Murray's agent) you should learn from the mistakes of Alex Revell, Dean Hammond and countless others. You should stay at a big club. And for once, we actually are a big club.
That was quite a long post. Sorry, but I just love you all and want you all to know everything I'm feeling. Tweet us if you want to hear more emotionally charged bullshit from your favourite (and only) Albion fanzine.