“Yo Death, my maaan! Shouldn’t you be at Aston Vill-aaaaagh!”

Not to be a party pooper, but I feel I must interject at this point. Remember a time long ago when we all cared about the league? Nah, me neither.

I don’t think I quite emphasised the importance of the Swansea game to Wigan’s Premier League survival. Hey, we all had other things on our minds last week so I suppose you could forgive a momentary lapse of concentration… or three. Don’t worry, I’m not going to bang on for 2,000 words about how the lack of Ramis and Alcaraz reduces the Wigan defence to a gibbering wreck, though to a certain extent I believe this to be true.

Instead, I shall speak at (moderate) length about this evening’s game and how Saturday afternoon affected it. Best get out your digestive biscuits and dunking beverage of choice for this one.

They say Wigan are the first team to win the FA Cup by accident, but I prefer to describe it as ‘everything falling into place’. The right draws, the right team selections, the right bit of luck here and there – three elements that have sadly been missing from Wigan’s league line-up at crucial points in the season. Antolin Alcaraz was supposed to miss the rest of the season, but he made a miraculous return to lead his team to FA Cup glory.

If Callum McManaman had been producing these kinds of performances in the first team from day one of the 2012-13 campaign, we might probably have been safe by January. And if Lionel Messi played for Wigan, we might have won the FA Cup. Oh, wait…

Screw the ifs, because barring a trip to the Large Hadron Collider, you can do precious little to change the past. Wigan had one more chance to fend off the Grim Reaper – if they could pull off an amazing win at Arsenal, that required points total of 41 would seem less of a pipe dream and a bit closer to reality. But the margin for error was negligible; quite simply, nought but perfection would suffice. Gulp.

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Now, I know what you’re thinking. “How on earth did he have time to travel home and type up this article so quickly?” Well, it’s quite simple, really – I ‘borrowed’ Uncle Dave’s helicopter from the roof of the town hall and parked it behind the Wembley arch so nobody would know.

There was a sticky moment when said chopper was briefly visible on ITV’s television coverage, but I think I got away with it because my co-pilot, the Honey Monster, distracted viewers with a risqué dance. Yes indeed, I kidnapped him after his appearance at the Tottenham game and he’s been living in my spare room ever since. I originally did it to avoid the bedroom tax but have since realised owning a furry, cereal-obsessed creature has other benefits.

Look out for my forthcoming paperback self-help book, How The Honey Monster Changed My Life, in Waterstones next week. Only £9.99 while stocks last! I’m currently printing the final batch of them with my dot matrix printer, so if you’d like an advance copy send me a telegram NOW!

What this has to do with the FA Cup Final, I have no idea. But the sad news is that I was unable to make it down to London due to unforeseen circumstances entirely beyond my control. I’ll say only this: the JWAW medicine cabinet has been taking an awful hammering for the past three days or so. That idiot coughing behind me on the bus last week will surely pay for his blasé approach to personal hygiene.

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Wigan’s horseshoe collection, shortly before it was stolen by Alex Ferguson

Agh, must I write about this now? 18 painstaking hours of blanking out the memory will be undone in a fraction of that time tapping away at my chocolate-stained keyboard, but what the heck. I believe there is just enough space for brief reflection before we draw a line under this matter and move on to Wemb… ah, hahah! But that is a subject for another day (tomorrow, in fact), so I shall not mention it just yet, even if I feel the constant need.

So much right, yet so much wrong. At times Latics looked at though they could stick the ball in Swansea’s net at will and this was an utter joy to witness. It was all tempered, however, by the odd piece of chaotic defending that threatened to undermine the club’s very survival in The Greatest League in the World (©The Mainstream Media), and so it came to pass. Or, should I say, misplaced pass. (Yay, enough with the poor jokes – Ed.)

I dunno what happened there as I am my own editor so there is no need to add such comments. Anyhow, the injuries issue. Barring McArthur’s early season travails and tribulations, I can hardly remember a single midfield or forward that has suffered quite as much as our centre backs have collectively this season.

Respected up-and-coming footy journalistic type Danny Jamieson recently compiled a longlist of all the players that have had spells in the centre of defence in the past nine months or so, and it’s pretty populous. I won’t recite it here or my web bandwidth will be exceeded long before I am finished typing, but suffice to say any club so unsettled in such an integral position, even the very best of the best, would suffer to some extent.

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“I told you we should have taken out home insurance.”

The FA Cup Final is in just seven days, yet it felt a lifetime away as I nervously crossed yet another date off my calendar. Despite the prospect of silverware, there was no dancing in the streets quite yet, as Wigan Athletic had unfinished business to attend to. Nope, I ain’t talkin’ ’bout the 1986 Oscar-nominated film of the same name, I’m talkin’ bout our relegation (talking ’bout our reee-le-gation!)… scrap.

It’s strange how these match reports become more and more like those on the BBC Sport website as the tension racks up just a notch, forcing me to scramble for vaguely humorous references to lighten the mood. Oh wait, now I come to think of it I’ve been doing that since 2009. Like one does with the whole of the Daily Mail, just read on and forget I ever wrote this blasted paragraph.

You know the situation, but for the benefit of those reading this as a stand-alone article on your iPad 43.5 in 2025, I shall provide a bit of background info. Latics needed to win. That enough for ya, George Jetson?

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